


Lead Balloons

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Book Omens, Developing Relationship, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Other, Romance, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Smut, show omens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 97,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: “I can’t tell you how many times those words have echoed in my mind over the millenia. Every time something goes wrong, I think of lead balloons.”Crowley and Aziraphale navigate an ever-changing world while grappling with their loyalties to their respective sides, their desire to be free, and their ever-deepening love for one another.Book/Show hybrid AU of Aziraphale and Crowley throughout history.Complete.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 156
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter One - Golgotha

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we go. A new multi-chapter Good Omens fic. This one isn't going to be nearly as fluffy as Barriers, but I think that's partly due to the state of mind I'm in right now. It'll be interesting to look back on this fic in a couple years, when (hopefully) this pandemic is over and this time of our life grows ever distant. 
> 
> This fic will be pretty heavy with angst and emotional struggles, but there is ALWAYS comfort to be found. There will be humor, and romance, and love, and laughter. Much like real life, these two will have moments of sorrow, and moments of great joy and delight. But the most important thing is that no matter what, they go through it all together. 
> 
> Any specific warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Chapter one warnings include: depictions of the Crucifixion and vomit.
> 
> With all that said.... enjoy?

* * *

**Chapter One - Golgotha**

_They don’t know what they are doing._

Those words- uttered despairingly Heavenward through bloodied and bruised lips- hit Aziraphale like the whip that had struck Christ’s back when they tortured him mere hours ago. 

Glancing around, he watches as the humans respond differently to the gruesome scene before them. Soldiers take turns picking and prodding at the men on the cross- the one in the center their preferred target. He watches as another group of men stand in the distance, some having to hold others back as they quietly grieve and argue amongst themselves. Others watch with the general disinterest that comes with so many similar executions. 

In the center of it all, wrapped in blue and clutching a torn piece of her son’s robe, is a silent and stoic Mary, who Aziraphale is certain hasn’t let her gaze leave her son once. 

Aziraphale recalls Gabriel recounting how he’d informed the young girl of her destiny. _Be not afraid!_ he’d told her. Aziraphale wonders if she is afraid now; if she regrets her willingness to be the mother of a child whose only purpose was to die. 

His gaze scans the crowd. Isn’t that mankind’s _only_ purpose, really? To die? 

To the side, more soldiers laugh and gamble for another scrap of Jesus’ robe. Despite being an ethereal being who has no need for bodily functions, Aziraphale feels his stomach roll as a wave of nausea crashes within his stomach at the sight of such blatant hatred and disdain. He can’t watch this much longer. This… this cruel torture and inhumane treatment of one who only ever preached kindness (outside of that one outburst at the temple, which Aziraphale had privately thought delightful.) 

Immediately to his left, Aziraphale can still feel the strangely comforting demonic presence that is Craw- _Crow_ ley. She’d gone silent some time ago, and Aziraphale can’t think of anything to speak of that would be appropriate for the situation in which they’ve found themselves. He thinks of leaving, but Crowley has made no move to flee, almost as still as Mary, who is silently weeping as she watches the life of her son slowly and tortuously leave his body. 

Bile rises in Aziraphale’s throat, and he has to look away lest he make a mess on the ground before them. He gets himself under control through sheer force of will and a distinct desire not to draw attention to himself or his companion. He clears his throat a little, surprised to feel a sort of choked sob enter the mix, and spends the next hour ruminating over that feeling. He barely knew Jesus. They’d spoken once or twice in passing, but Aziraphale had opted not to grow too attached to the young man, considering he’d long known this would be his fate. 

Hardly knowing him doesn’t make this any easier. 

As the day crawls onward, Jesus’ body begins to succumb to the horrible strain it’s been placed under, and soon he grows too weak and pained to even cry out. A few choked gurgles manage to force their way through, and after a third such haunting sound, Aziraphale has to look away, has to will himself not to cry. 

He’s meant to save them all. This is part of the Great Plan. 

Another wave of nausea hits Aziraphale, and it’s all he can do to keep from succumbing to it. 

Beside him, Crowley whimpers, a broken, sorrowful thing that crawls out of her throat. After a moment, she stretches her hand out the few inches that separate them, and slips her fingers through Aziraphale’s. 

The surprise is enough to quell Aziraphale’s sickness, and he glances out of the corner of his eye to see Crowley’s cheeks are red and wet, tear after tear sliding down her cheeks as her shoulders quake despite how rigidly still she tries to keep herself. Her lips are turned downward in a deep frown, and those golden eyes, sparkling in the sinking sun, stare unblinking and horrified at the cruelty that is before her. 

Helpless, Aziraphale squeezes her hand, and shifts an inch closer to offer what silent comfort he thinks he can get away with. 

Not long after, just as the sun begins to disappear- and they’ve been standing for several hours in the cruel heat of the day watching an innocent man die in the cruelest of ways- Aziraphale feels a sharp pain in the place where men have a heart, and he gasps in shock and horror at the same time Christ manages to call out a last, broken plea: _My God, why have You forsaken me?!_

And in that instant, Aziraphale can feel it: can feel the presence of God abandoning this place; abandoning Her son. The sour taste of such absence, combined with the sickness he already feels over the whole thing, is too much for Aziraphale to bear, and he rips his hand away from Crowley to slap over his mouth as bile and yesterday’s dinner rises in his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages to murmur to Crowley before vanishing from the scene of the Crucifixion, reappearing in the small room he’d been renting, where he immediately empties the contents of his stomach all over the dirt floor. 

Panting, Aziraphale collapses on the straw and blanket that serves as his bedding, and stares at the foul-smelling mess. The taste is still in his mouth, too, and he thoughtlessly uses a miracle to remove the mess and clear the taste. In the back of his mind, he can feel the stirrings in the heavens; can feel that Christ has breathed his last. Can feel the veil in the temple rip in two. Can feel the angelic and demonic stirrings as this part of the Great Plan is fulfilled. 

Curling up on his makeshift bed, Aziraphale focuses on those angelic feelings, the sensations that are innate to his ethereal being. He can feel the utter- nearly _smug_ \- delight of Heaven, and he wonders if any of them would feel like celebrating if they’d stood in the Golgotha sun for nine hours and watched a man slowly die in agony. Would they even care? After all, it’s just another item checked off the list that is the Great Plan. And that’s meant to be a _good_ thing. 

So why does Aziraphale feel so wretched? 

Eventually, he can feel the stirrings settle, and Aziraphale lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Outside, the sun is beginning to rise once more.

Standing abruptly, the angel packs his very few belongings in a small knapsack, leaves some miracled-up money for the innkeeper, and flees the city before the sun is fully settled in the sky. He pays no attention to where he’s going, only that he wants to get _away_ , and through a few miracles finds himself in a small Japanese village that he thinks will suit him nicely. It’s far enough away from that awful mess in Golgotha, at least. 

As if on autopilot, Aziraphale asks around until he finds a room to rent. He’s not familiar with the language and so uses a miracle to allow him to understand and be understood. Typically, Aziraphale likes to learn a new language the old fashioned way, but desperate times allow for a bit of cheating. 

Finally he’s led to a small room, not much different than the one he just vacated in a rush. The woman who led him to his room graciously provides a small tray of tea, and the aroma automatically soothes Aziraphale as he takes the proffered tray. 

He thanks the woman who helped him and gives her a small blessing. Nothing much, just a sense of contentment and a night of peaceful sleep. It isn’t much, but seeing her appearance soften slightly as she leaves is enough to momentarily pacify Aziraphale. 

That is, until he recalls why he’d come here in such a rush. 

That same sickening feeling returns, but he’s not eaten or drank anything since before the crucifixion, so he doesn’t think he has much to worry about. 

With a sigh, Aziraphale drops his little bag onto the floor, places the tea tray on the small table, then collapses onto the bedroll, feeling so much heavier than his form suggests. He can’t shake that sickening feeling of God leaving Her son. It had been so cold, so heart wrenching, feeling the familiar warmth of her presence rescind itself to complete her son’s mission. He can’t un-hear that last, desperate cry of a man for mercy. He can’t forget the warm, vice-like grip of Crowley’s hand in his. 

That thought jars him as intrinsically more pleasant than the others, despite the situation, and in an effort to distract himself from what that could mean, he sets about preparing himself a cup of tea. As he makes it, his mind wanders back to the day before. Try as he might, he can’t understand how something so cruel and agonizing could _possibly_ be part of the Great Plan. Flashes of people trying desperately to swim toward the arc pass through his mind. Though he wasn’t there, he recalls hearing about Sodom and Gomorrah. 

And now this. 

Something stirs within Aziraphale: this wretched, gut-wrenching revulsion of everything he’s witnessed and defended and even participated in, all in the name of the Great Plan. 

He takes a sip of tea. It tastes like apples. 

He stares down at the cup in alarm, then reaches out with his angelic aura, but he cannot sense any demonic presence nearby, familiar or otherwise. He’s far too inside his own head, he reasons, too emotional to think clearly. 

Placing the teacup back on the tray, Aziraphale curls up on the bedroll, and for the first time since his creation, sleeps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a pretty major downer, but I promise not every chapter will be this glum.
> 
> This story is outlined to be 26 chapters long. I'm currently writing chapter 24. Once I have the whole story completed and edited, the update schedule will change to every other day, until all chapters are posted.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think so far.
> 
> Chapter Two: Eight Years Later. Aziraphale recognizes a second chance when he sees one. He and Crowley have their first heart-to-heart.


	2. Chapter Two - Rome, Eight Years Later - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet in Rome. Aziraphale takes a chance, and the two have their first real heart-to-heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the positive response on chapter one! I’m excited to share this fic with you all, and I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

**Chapter Two - Rome, Eight Years Later - Part I**

The Roman sun is bright and warm, enough to drive Aziraphale into the nearest ale house to seek refuge and a drink. He’d traveled here for work two weeks prior, but his job had been mercifully quick, and so now he is merely enjoying himself, spending his days exploring the city and all it has to offer until he’s given a new assignment. 

He can’t say he minds the reprieve, if he’s honest with himself, which he seldom ever is. 

Settling into a chair, he contents himself to enjoy a few drinks before heading back out. He has a rather full itinerary for his stay, but he’d scheduled today to be a day of absent wanderings. He’s found those days are often the most productive- it’s how he’s discovered some of the most delicious food and the best wines in his travels, and he’s heard wonderful things about a restaurant owned by a gentleman named Petronius. He’s tempted to find the place for dinner, but he’ll see where the day takes him. 

As he occupies himself with the game in front of him, thinking about the meal that is to come- one of the few thoughts he has that is never anything but pleasant- he hears a voice that is hauntingly familiar. Looking up with wide eyes, Aziraphale spots the familiar visage of the demon Crowley. He’s dressed in the traditional masculine garb of the day, and his hair is sheared short, which Aziraphale can’t help but momentarily begrudge. No matter. He’s still handsome as ever- 

Aziraphale gasps at that. _Handsome?_ When has he _ever_ thought of Crowley as _handsome?!_

_Well, let’s see: he was perfectly handsome on the wall when you first met, in Egypt, in Nineveh, in China, in Golgotha-_

With great irritation, Aziraphale stops that train of thought in its tracks. It won’t do to think of Crowley in such a way. 

_Why not?_

For a brief moment, Aziraphale considers leaving. Not because he doesn’t want to see Crowley; indeed, he would very much like to see his hereditary enemy, much as he is supposed to want the opposite. But he can’t bring himself to approach the demon. His sudden disappearance from Golgotha eight years prior had been the last time they’d seen once another, and Aziraphale still feels a slight sense of embarrassment over the way he’d just left. He knows Crowley had been equally- if not _more-_ distraught, but Aziraphale knows if he’d stayed, there’s no telling what he might have said. Done. 

It’s already bad enough that he’s had _thoughts._ He isn’t supposed to question; his job is to do what he’s told, not to question why. 

The problem is, he’s been doing a lot of the latter over the past eight years. 

He’s kept such thoughts to himself. Certainly he cannot speak to any of his colleagues about such things, and he’s been too embarrassed by his reaction to approach Crowley since that day. But he can’t help but wonder if perhaps the demon could shine some light on a few things. 

They’ve spent a not-insignificant amount of time together, over the centuries. And dangerous though it may be, he finds he considers Crowley a friend. They’ve endured a great many things over their time together on earth; watched the world go from a vast and empty wilderness to something just as wild, but with better food and more complexity. Perhaps eight years is long enough to go without seeing his demonic counterpart, despite having gone longer in the past. It’s lonely work, being an angel on assignment. He could do with a friendly chat. And perhaps a few answers to questions he shouldn’t have. 

Standing, he cautiously approaches the bar where Crowley is grumbling something snarky to the scowling barmaid. “Craw- _Crowley?”_

The demon looks up sharply, as if the last thing he’d been expecting was to hear his name. Now that they’re facing one another, Aziraphale notes with a frown that Crowley has hidden his eyes behind small, dark tinted glasses. The scowl softens ever so slightly, but the Crowley before Aziraphale looks nothing like the wide-eyed, excitable demon he recalls on the wall. The demon who’d made his heart- before he’d even had a heart- skip multiple beats. 

“Aziraphale.” 

Realizing now that he never came up with a plan on _what_ to say to his companion, Aziraphale hesitates, hands wringing nervously as he scrambles for something- anything, really- to say. 

“It’s been a while,” he says, plastering on a fake smile to hide the grimace of such a stupid statement. _Of course_ it’s been a while. 

“Really? I wouldn’t know,” Crowley remarks dryly before taking a long swig from his cup, grimacing at the taste. “Not kept up with how humans track time nowadays.”

Aziraphale watches with a frown as Crowley refills his cup. He knows _exactly_ how long it’s been since they last saw one another. Eight years, four months, and twenty-two days. He opts to keep that information to himself, and instead plasters on a polite smile as the demon turns a little more to face the angel. “Anyway,” he says, taking another drink, nose wrinkling as he swallows the swill, “What brings you to Rome?” 

“Ah, well, work, of course,” Aziraphale says as he watches Crowley continue to drink the foul-tasting alcohol that was placed in front of him. 

“Same,” Crowley agrees absently, “Work.” 

He drinks again. Scowls. 

“Though,” Aziraphale continues hesitantly, “My work _is_ finished.” 

“So I guess you’ll be popping along then,” Crowley remarks with a bit of venom in his words, “Got places to do and people to be. No, wait.” His brow furrows a bit as he thinks about his words, then shrugs and lets the thought go. “Or whatever.” 

“Actually,” Aziraphale murmurs, watching Crowley with increasing concern. He’s going through the jug quickly, as if trying desperately to become inebriated. It’s a strange state to find oneself in, as Aziraphale can attest to. Not that he is against it, but he is a little worried as to why Crowley seems so intent to lose his inhibitiations at such breakneck speed. 

He watches as the demon takes another drink, grimacing as he does so. 

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” Aziraphale sighs, stepping forward and catching Crowley’s hand. He tugs, his strength allowing him to easily pull Crowley off the stool he’s perched on. The demon has no choice but to follow. 

“Oi!” He complains, giving a quick, half-hearted tug of protest before following the angel, “What gives?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t stop. He marches on, a foolhardy plan falling into place as he walks. “If you insist on becoming inebriated,” he remarks, “Then I’d prefer not to watch you suffer needlessly to get there.” 

“You don’t have to stay and watch,” Crowley protests as he finally tugs hard enough to demand the angel to stop. He does, and Crowley moves to stand beside him. “And you don’t have to drag me through the street like I’m some degenerate, angel. I’ll come willingly.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says in surprise. He releases Crowley's wrist, then points north. “We’re going that way. I think you’ll like it.” 

“Does it have alcohol?” 

“Yes. _Quality_ alcohol, at that.” 

“Then lead the way, angel.”

—

They end up at Patroneous’ restaurant- a bit earlier than planned- a large plate of oysters between them, sharing a pitcher of the finest wine. True to expectation, the oysters are utterly splendid, and Aziraphale can’t help but once more applaud human ingenuity. When it comes to food and wine, the humans really do continue to outdo themselves. 

Their meal progresses, and the conversation- in no small part thanks to the ale- becomes less stilted and melts into a friendly kind of banter that Aziraphale hadn’t realized he’d missed so dearly. He looks up after placing the last shell back onto the plate and is momentarily stunned by just how lovely Crowley is. His eyes are still obscured, and his wardrobe is hilariously out of style, as if he’d just grabbed the first things that remotely looked correct, and sauntered into town. But nevertheless, he is beautiful, and Aziraphale feels a strange thing in his chest, like the organ there has suddenly thought the body it’s in has run a marathon, and is beating ever-faster to compensate. 

The angel’s palms grow damp, but it’s far too cool in the now setting sun to blame it on the heat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, causing the demon to look up from his cup to regard him. Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s about to say, only that he needs to say _something_. “I’m sorry I left, that day.” 

That hadn’t been what he wanted to start this conversation with, but it feels good to have said it, nonetheless. 

He watches as Crowley takes in the words; watches as the ease in Crowley’s posture- something that had taken several cups of wine and a few oysters to loosen- tenses back up. 

“No worries, angel,” he dismisses in a manner Aziraphale knows to be a lie. It’s strange; Aziraphale has always expected the demon to lie. But he never thought the demon might do it to spare his feelings. 

“Well, I do worry,” Aziraphale confesses, picking up his own cup so as to have something to occupy his hands. “It was a… terrible day. I feel ashamed of how I handled it. How I just…”

“Vanished?” 

Guilt wraps itself around the Angel’s body like a coiling snake. “Not only vanished,” he concedes, “But I gave you no word. I… you were just as distraught as I was, if not more so, and I just…” Aziraphale takes a breath. “I forsook you.” 

The use of that word causes Crowley to sit upright, and all the lithe gracelessness of drunkenness shrivels into a sober and stoic demon. “You… you didn’t _forsake_ me, Aziraphale. I-“ he stops and glances around. They’ve been at the restaurant for a few hours, and the patronage has not for an instant slowed. “Let’s take this elsewhere, yeah? Eyes and ears everywhere.” 

Aziraphale glances around, suddenly more nervous than before. “Right. Yes, let’s.” 

They pay and leave, walking leisurely in a random direction. Crowley seems to be leading- at least Aziraphale _hopes_ he’s leading- and after fifteen minutes of silence, they come to a small inn where Crowley leads them to a room that is near identical to the one in which Aziraphale is staying on the other side of town. 

They sit on the floor, legs crossed and facing one another. 

Crowley takes a deep breath, then releases it and pulls off the tinted glasses. Rather than put them aside, he toys with them, and stares at them with a deep focus as he speaks. 

“You didn’t forsake me by leaving,” Crowley repeats, “I didn’t blame you for leaving. It was… difficult to watch.” 

“I feel ashamed for being unable to handle it,” Aziraphale confesses. “For not being able to offer you comfort. I wanted to-“ he looks away, feeling a strange sensation he’s not felt since the Flood. His throat feels tight, and his eyes burn with a need to release the tears that are welling up without his consent. “I wanted to comfort you. But…” 

“But?” 

Aziraphale takes a breath. Now or never, he realizes, and he just hopes that speaking this aloud doesn’t ruin him. 

If it does, perhaps that will give him the answer he seeks. 

“Ever since that day in Golgotha,” he begins, unable to look Crowley in the face, “I have been thinking. About-“ he pauses and _does_ look at Crowley as he gestures upwards as he whispers, “Upstairs.” He drops his hand and his gaze. “And these thoughts have been quite… overwhelming.” 

“What thoughts?” Crowley asks, gently encouraging the angel to continue. 

“They,” he stops, swallows, then continues to speak, voice lowered but not quite a whisper. “I can’t quite put that day out of my mind. How utterly horrible it all was… I feel dreadfully sorry for that poor boy. I confess when I learned what was happening I… I almost…” he stops. 

“Almost what?” Crowley leans forward, curious. 

“I wanted to ask them _why_ ,” Aziraphale whispers, ashamed. But the burden he’s long been holding seems to lighten, and he doesn’t feel quite so desolate and isolated. 

Across from him, Crowley gasps. “Careful, Aziraphale,” he warms, voice low and serious, “That’s dangerous territory. I would know.” 

“Yes, I know,” Aziarphale sighs. “I _know._ But it just felt so wrong. It still does. Sending Him here just to be tortured like that. Though, I suppose it’s what He was _meant_ to- no!” He shakes his head, “That’s _them_ talking.” He sighs and buries his head in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know! Is it _wrong_ to wish She’d come up with something else instead of-“ he struggles to think of a way to describe the horror of watching the Christ child strung up on a cross, full of agony and pain, and settles for a wave of his hand and a disdainful, “ _That?”_

“No, it’s not wrong,” Crowley remarks softly, causing Aziraphale to look up. Crowley is facing him, looking at him, but somehow _past_ him, as if he’s seeing the Crucifixion all over again. “I asked Her the same thing when I helped bury Him.” 

Aziraphale blinks. “You… helped?” 

Crowley shrugs. “He was my friend. Of course I helped.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, “I didn’t realize-“ 

“I spent forty days and nights with Him, in the wilderness,” Crowley says softly as a bitter sound that tries and fails to be a laugh escapes him. “Tried to tempt Him. Boss’s orders. Though between you and me, I didn’t try very hard and instead we ended up talking.” 

A small, fleeting smile ghosts over Crowley’s lips. “He made me laugh.” 

Aziraphale watches as the smile fades back into a scowl. He hates that look, hates to see Crowley so sad, so wretched. He wishes he could do something to help alleviate the pain that he’s no doubt been feeling for the past eight years, four months, twenty-two days. 

He wishes he could make Crowley laugh. 

“What did you talk about?” He asks instead, shifting a little closer and producing a bottle of wine with a miracle. 

Crowley shrugs and accepts the bottle, tossing his glasses aside. “Everything. We talked about carpentry. He had a knack for it; really enjoyed it too. We talked about His mother- the earthly one. Talked about Mary Magdalene. He wanted to marry her, you know, but never allowed Himself to pursue anything, knowing He was meant to die. I asked Him once if he was okay with His role in all this. Said He was. Two nights later I caught Him crying and begging Her to please find another way… it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it ought to have been.” 

He takes a deep drink from the bottle, then hands it back to Aziraphale. 

“You two seem close.” 

“We were,” Crowley admits. “I s’pose I was a little in awe of him. He was smart; witty. Kind. He listened…” Crowley swallows thickly, and takes the bottle back before continuing. “He listened to my _questions._ The ones I Fell for. He didn’t have all the answers, but He _listened._ He didn’t care that I was a demon. Hell, that was His _thing_ , wasn’t it? Hang out with those the world hates.” Crowley smiles sadly then looks up at Aziraphale, “Reminded me a little of you, actually. You’ve never cared that I was a demon, not really.” 

“I only care to the degree that if we are ever caught together, we will be in a world of trouble.” 

Crowley sits up on his knees, sloshing wine as he leans closer to Aziraphale, startling the angel. “But don’t you see, Aziraphale? You can be quite literally _perfect_ and Heaven will still see you as only a tool to use and then toss away when your usefulness has run dry. I mean, what’s Jesus up to, these days, now He’s ascended?” 

Aziraphale blinks. Thinks. “You know, I… I don’t know.” 

“Exactly. He is Her son, and He still was nothing more than a tool in a war we’re all expected to want, simply because She wants it! Do you want to fight in a war?”

Aziraphale hesitates for several long moments before answering. He knows what he _should_ say, but he knows Crowley won’t accept _shoulds._ And after everything, he feels he owes Crowley the truth. “No,” he whispers. 

“Neither do I,” Crowley exclaims, “But it’ll happen one day- and you’ll have to fight and I’ll have to fight simply because we were told we’re _supposed_ to fight in the name of some blasted Great Plan, and in the meanwhile we can’t even-“ he stops short, sitting back as he swallows whatever words he was going to say. He curses softly and drinks again, taking several large gulps. 

“Can’t what, dear?” Aziraphale asks softly. 

Crowley lowers the bottle, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Point is, our bosses don’t care one bit that the world isn’t black and white, good or evil. It’s got all these lovely shades of grey mixed in- all these… these little splotches of colour ruining their pretty picture, and…” he trails off, the slumps against the wall, defeated. 

“And it’s not fair,” Aziraphale whispers solemnly. “It’s not fair that… that I’m supposed to _hate_ you, to want to defeat you, when the fact is… I _don’t.”_

Crowley looks up, face softened by drink and surprise. “You… don’t?” 

The angel shakes his head. “No, I don’t,” he says simply. “I don’t think I _could;_ not really.”

“‘M a demon, though. Should be _real_ easy.” 

Aziraphale shrugs and takes the bottle for a long drink himself. The bottle should be nearly empty now, but it remains just as full as when it was first produced. He isn’t sure which of them is responsible for that. “But it isn’t,” he says as he pulls the bottle away, licking his lips to catch a stray drop of wine. He notices the demon’s gaze follows the movement, but tries not to think of what that might mean. “You’re not just a demon. Not to me. You’re-“ he stops suddenly, cheeks growing hot. 

Crowley sits up; looks almost hopeful. “I’m what?” 

The word lingers heavy on the angel’s tongue, but he dare not speak it. He’s already said too much tonight. Already admitted to having questions. Already spent too long in the company of a demon. To acknowledge this for what it is- what it _has been_ for centuries- it’s too much. 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, then looks up sharply, eyes wide. “No! _You’re_ not nothing. I just mean.. I shouldn’t… say… oh…” he huffs, frustrated with himself and Heaven and the whole bloody mess of it all. “You’re far more than just a demon to me; let’s leave it at that.”

When he meets Crowley’s gaze, the demon is smiling. It’s small, hesitant, and perhaps a little alcohol-inspired, but a smile all the same. 

“You’re more than just an angel,” he replies softly, their gazes lingering on each other for a long moment before Crowley clears his throat and shifts in his spot. 

“So. Questions, hmm?” 

Aziraphale tenses. A small part of him had hoped the demon might have forgotten that part of their conversation, but _of course_ that isn’t the case. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs, “A moment of doubt during a stressful situation; one I’m sure won’t be repeated.” 

He watches as Crowley’s smile fades. Feels the distance between them- the line that says _hereditary enemies_ \- stretch a little farther. 

“It… it’s _okay_ to have questions, Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly, almost comfortingly. 

The angel shakes his head. “We both know that isn’t true,” he says firmly. He watches with dismay as the demon seems to curl in on himself a little tighter. It breaks Aziraphale’s heart to see him so ashamed of who he is- ashamed because of Aziraphale’s words- but some truths are just ugly. “I’m sorry,” the angel says for the second time that evening, “I keep finding ways to insult you, though that is not my intention. I just…” he wrings his hands together, “You must understand, my dear. I have a _job_. I have my orders. And questioning is not in the job description. I’m meant to be better than that. I’m meant to have faith in the Great Plan. Questioning things is not meant to be a part of the equation.” 

Crowley sits up once more, agitated. Restless, he stands. Then he begins to pace. “But that’s just _it,_ Aziraphale! It _is_ a part of the equation! I saw you that day. I saw the grief in your eyes. I _felt_ _it_ in the way you squeezed my hand. I watched you vanish because you couldn’t take it anymore. If you’d stood there without any reaction, _maybe_ I could believe you, but you didn’t. You stood there, same as me, and watched an innocent man _suffer_ , and you thought it was _wrong-_ even though it was part of the Great Plan!”

Aziraphale doesn’t stand, but he does sit up on his knees, gripping the cloth of his robe in clenched fists. “If you are trying to accuse me of lacking faith-“ 

“That’s not what I’m doing and you know it,” Crowley huffs. He stops and kneels before Aziraphale, his hands resting over the angel’s. The touch is unnaturally warm, and the angel gasps at the heat, recalling how soft and warm Crowley’s hand had been eight years ago. 

“What I’m saying is… faith through coercion _isn’t_ faith. It’s… it’s forced obedience.”

“I’m not a human, Crowley,” Aziraphale remarks softly. “I don’t have a choice in the matter. I serve the Almighty and her Divine Plan- and I do it without question. That’s what I am. Who I am.” 

“We both know that’s not true,” Crowley whispers in a way that leaves no room for argument. Aziraphale doesn’t want to argue, anyway. “I saw you falter when I questioned the Flood, way back when. We talked about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and _you said_ you wished they hadn’t done it. I watched you grieve for Jesus- for hell’s sake, _I’m_ still grieving, and I was supposed to hate the man!” 

He grips Aziraphale’s hand tighter. “I told you when we met that I didn’t think you could do the wrong thing. And I think that now. If you’re questioning things-“ 

“Shh!” Aziraphale hisses on instinct. He needs some plausible deniability, just in case. 

Crowley continues, ignoring the shush. “If you’re questioning how things are done, but you can do no wrong… then maybe that’s part of the Divine Plan too.” 

“Crowley-“ Aziraphale breathes, looking down as he feels more tears forming. He’s not used to crying, and he isn’t certain he likes it. It leaves him feeling heavy, and yet somehow empty. 

“I’m not trying to lead you astray, angel,” Crowley whispers softly, wiping away one of the tears that falls down an angelic, porcelain cheek. “I just… you’re so afraid. You’ve been afraid ever since I met you… and…” he hesitates, but finally speaks, though he doesn’t meet the angel’s eyes when he does so: “I just want you to be happy. And… I don’t think Heaven makes you happy.” 

Aziraphale removes one of his hands from where it rests under Crowley’s, and presses it over the demon’s, squeezing softly as he processes the demon’s words. “No one has ever cared about… my happiness before,” he whispers, “I don’t think angels are supposed to concern themselves with being happy.” 

“That’s why I’m taking it upon myself,” Crowley says with a shrug. “A little side gig in between temptations.”

Despite himself- despite the seriousness of the situation and the solemn heaviness that presses down around them- Aziraphale laughs. It’s risky: every moment they spend together is risky. Dangerous. Deadly. But Aziraphale has long felt a distinct pull towards Crowley, and despite their many differences, he finds solace and comfort in his demonic counterpart. More than that, he _likes_ the demon. Respects him. Admires him. Another word threatens to make itself known, but Aziraphale pushes it back down, telling himself he’s snuffing it out when he knows he’s actually keeping it safe, hidden away where nothing and no one can harm the feeling before it has a chance to blossom into something more hearty and steadfast. 

Until then, however. Maybe Crowley has a point. More accurately, he’s discovered a loophole in which they can exist. It’s a small, unsteady place to coexist, but it’s theirs, and Aziraphale decides to step into this small space designated just for them, and see where it takes them. 

“I imagine it will be a challenging job. Are you sure you’re up to the task?” 

The grin the demon gives him is the most demonic, playful, and handsome Crowley has ever looked. “Oh, angel,” he coos, “I’ve never been more certain of anything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the show, Aziraphale has a crisis of faith during Armageddon. In the book, not so much, which leads me to believe he had to have had said crisis at some point that we don’t get to read about. For this story, that crisis begins with the death of Christ, and never really goes away. 
> 
> Chapter Three: continuing in Rome, Aziraphale and Crowley talk some more, and test some boundaries.


	3. Chapter Three- Rome, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley talk some more, and test some boundaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Three - Rome, Part II**

In all their history together, if such a record were to exist, it would state that Aziraphale and Crowley had never spent more than a few hours in each other’s company at a time. Certainly, there had been circumstances in which they saw each other more than normal, but it was always short lived, and then it wouldn’t be unusual to go decades, or even centuries, without seeing one another again. 

It seems that now, eight years is too long to keep away. 

“Eight years, four months, and twenty-two days.” 

Aziraphale’s head shoots up. Wide, unfocused, blue eyes lock onto the demon’s golden one’s in shock. “What?” 

Their gaze meets only for a moment before the demon looks away, not even all the wine in his system preventing him from staring at his hands as if embarrassed. “Eight years, four months, and twenty-two days,” he repeats, “How long it’s been since we last saw each other.” 

A swirl of something Aziraphale refuses to name but recognizes all the same when around Crowley twists in his gut, setting a ripple effect that shoots up through his heart, and then to his cheeks, which ignite in a pleasant warmth that has nothing to do with all the alcohol they’ve consumed. “You said you didn’t keep track,” he whispers.

Crowley looks up, expression open and honest. “I lied.” 

Their gaze meets once more, and in an act of boldness, Aziraphale moves from where he’s leaning against the wall to sit directly beside Crowley, so close the angel can feel the otherworldly warmth of demonic influence against his robe-covered skin. “My dear,” he whispers, “You don’t have to lie to me; not about that.” 

He feels Crowley shift against him. “But I can lie about everything else?” He asks, the question teasing. 

“I would prefer if you didn’t.” 

“Then can I tell you the truth?” The demon asks. 

“Always.” 

“I missed you.” 

It’s such a simple statement, but the weight those words hold is far greater than what Aziraphale was expecting, and he stumbles under the heaviness. But he’s an angel- a  _ Principality _ \- strong in ways his brethren are not, and after a slight adjustment, the weight of those words settles on him, and he finds it is not such a burden to bear. In fact, it feels  _ good _ . 

“I must confess, I missed you as well,” he breathes, and  _ oh _ , if it feels good to acknowledge, it feels even better to say aloud. 

Beside him, Crowley gasps sharply, as if he expected the sentiment not to be reciprocated. “Yeah?” 

“I’m not about to run around shouting it from the rooftops, but yes. I did.” 

Crowley grins at that. “Oh,  _ angel. _ I’d pay a hefty sum to see you run anywhere.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “You act as if I’ve never run in my entire existence.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale sees Crowley loll his head to better look at him. “Have you?” The demon challenges. 

Aziraphale hesitates for a long moment before huffing once more. “Give me that,” he says instead, tugging the bottle of wine from Crowley’s grip, drinking down an impressive amount while the demon beside him laughs. 

The realization of what’s occurring startles the angel, and he lowers the bottle, looking over at Crowley, whose nose is scrunched and eyes are squinted as he laughs heartily at the concept of Aziraphale running. While he knows he should play the offended party, Aziraphale can only instead watch as the demon laughs. 

Because of him. 

When Crowley finally sobers, he sits up straight, watching with sudden worry as the angel watches him. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Aziraphale says after a moment of distraction. He looks away, trying to store the sound of Crowley’s delightful laughter in a safe place he can revisit and cherish when alone. “Just good to see you in higher spirits.” 

The bottle is yanked from his hand. “‘Course I am,” he says once he takes a long swig, “‘S’been a good day.” 

“It has, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale agrees softly. 

“Best one I’ve had in eight years, four months, and twenty-two days.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “I would have to agree.” 

—-

They talk through the night, mostly about the past eight years, until finally night bleeds into morning. The bright sun, cool morning air, and the smell of freshly baked bread is a siren call to the angel who suggests he and Crowley grab breakfast before parting ways. 

“We must still be cautious,” Aziraphale warns as they walk together. “I don’t want anything to get back to either of our head offices.” 

“I really don’t think they care,” Crowley counters, “So long as our jobs get done, what’s it matter what we do in our down time?” 

“It matters  _ plenty _ ,” Aziraphale remarks firmly, following his nose to a nearby bakery. “We are diametrically opposed; or rather, we are  _ meant  _ to be. One does not fraternize with the enemy without repercussions.” 

“And is that what you’re doing?” Crowley asks, a little tersely as they walk down the street, mindful of the slowly growing crowds of people who are emerging to begin their days, “Fraternizing?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says, a touch distracted as he catches sight of the bakery he’s seeking. He takes Crowley’s hand in his as he moves forward, hardly aware of just what it is he’s doing. “By its very definition,  _ yes _ , that is exactly what I’m doing. But I certainly value our association far more than some…” he pauses; struggles to think of a word. 

“Illicit rendezvous?” Crowley supplies dryly, a touch of bitterness in his voice. 

Aziraphale stops walking and turns back to Crowley. “Yes,” he says softly, lingering for a moment before continuing, almost desperately, “I mean no offense, dear fellow. But if only to alleviate my worries, you must let me maintain some… deniability to our relationship, should I ever be questioned on it. I have to be able to deny you to protect you-“ he sees Crowley open his mouth to protest and quickly presses on, “Not that I think you  _ need _ protecting! But please. Let me have this; if only to ease my mind.” 

Crowley sighs, long-suffering. “If it makes you feel better, then okay.” 

The angel smiles, then begins to turn away, before stopping once more and sighing. “I will say this,” he murmurs, looking about as if half-expecting to see a Heavenly agent nearby, “But I will only say it once: what I might be forced to  _ say  _ about us to others and what I  _ feel _ are very different things. You are dear to me, Crowley. More than I feel safe expressing. Please always remember  _ that _ , if nothing else.” 

Crowley stares at him for a long moment, slightly pale and wide-eyed; very near what a human might call  _ lovestruck.  _ “Alright,” he breathes at last, a small nod and a gentle squeeze of their joined hands accompanying the words.

Upon that feeling, Aziraphale glances down to where he’s still holding Crowley’s hand and drops it quickly. “Apologies, dear. Shouldn’t do that out in the open. We never know who may be watching,” he flushes, then turns away and gestures at the bakery. “Breakfast? My treat.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he rushes inside, cheeks burning. He blames it on the steadily growing warmth of the day and tries to think of anything but the look on Crowley’s face.

—-

Breakfast turns into a leisurely stroll through the city, which shifts into lunch. Before either of them know it, evening begins to approach, and Aziraphale is startled when he realizes he’s spent nearly an entire  _ day  _ with Crowley. And he’d enjoyed every moment of it. 

Hesitantly, as if afraid that he’s somehow going to cross a line or cause his companion to grow tired of him, he extends an invitation for dinner. 

“Hungry again already, angel?”

“Humans eat a few times a day,” Aziraphale remarks with a huff, “I’m merely keeping up appearances.” 

“‘Course,” Crowley agrees, and the angel is certain he can hear amusement in the demon’s tone, “That’s your only motivation. Not because you genuinely  _ like _ the food.” 

The angel flushes and has to fight down a twinge of embarrassment. Gabriel has made a few remarks about Aziraphale’s…  _ dedication...  _ to appearing human. Normally the words are dipped with poorly disguised disdain. 

“A benefit, I suppose.”

Crowley smiles. “Well. I’m not much for the food- sorry about that- but humans have really mastered the art of turning things into alcohol. So let’s go: you eat, I’ll drink, and we’ll both be merry.” 

Aziraphale beams at that. It’s hard not to be merry when around Crowley. 

They find a restaurant that isn’t crowded, and relax as they enjoy some wine. Aziraphale orders a few different things he’s eager to try, and insists that Crowley try them as well, which he does with an indulgent sigh. They chat as they dine, an idle sort of chatter about this and that, before Aziraphale takes a sip of wine to wash down the olives he’s just enjoyed. Dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin, he hums thoughtfully, and looks up at the demon. 

“I know you mentioned it,” he says softly, “But- and I admit to being a bit distracted that day- I wondered if- only if you don’t mind my asking, of course- but-“ 

“Out with it angel.”

Aziraphale flushes. “Right. Well. I suppose I just wonder why you changed your name?” He blinks, then hastily adds, “Not that I mind- of course I don’t! And it wouldn’t matter if I did- it’s  _ your _ name! And it’s a lovely name. It suits you. I suppose I’m just curious as to what prompted you to choose something else.” 

Despite wearing the dark-tinted glasses, Aziraphale can see the sorrowful sort of distant look on Crowley’s face. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and it’s on the tip of the angel’s tongue to apologize for ruining their evening and suggest they part ways when Crowley speaks. 

“It wasn’t my name,” he says simply. “Crawly.” He cringes a bit at it, face looking like he’s tasting the after-effects of Sobering Up. “I had my name…  _ before _ . But, I can’t quite remember what that was. Probably something long and obnoxious,” he says, throwing a teasing look at the angel who rolls his eyes. 

“Hell called me  _ Crawley.  _ I was The Serpent, after all, and we both know our head offices have not once in their entire existence been imaginative.” 

“Unfortunately true,” Aziraphale agrees with a solemn nod, “My superiors certainly lack any creativity.” 

It takes a moment, but he realizes he probably shouldn’t have said that out loud. He is convinced his superiors could be listening at any moment. Gabriel has certainly shown up unannounced a couple of times over the centuries, so Aziraphale is leery of heavenly eyes and ears upon him at any point. Clearing his throat, he quickly gets back to the matter at hand. 

“So, Hell named you Crawley.” 

“Yep,” Crowley nods before taking a long drink from his cup. “Never really liked it, but didn’t really consider changing it, until…” he trails off; that distant look Aziraphale had seen before returns. 

“Until?” He prompts, ready to retract it should Crowley express any reluctance. 

The demon is silent for a moment, then a small smile flickers across his lips. “Was in the wilderness with Jesus. He was… two? Two and a half weeks into his forty-day fast. He was getting a bit delirious, which, you know… is odd since he’s all god and all man- math there doesn’t add up you know. Anyway. He’s occult, so he shouldn’t really feel hunger-“ 

“Excuse me, but Jesus of Nazareth was  _ not occult! _ ” 

Crowley blinks. Then rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

“He is  _ ethereal,”  _ Aziraphale continues, insulted. 

_ “Anyway,” _ Crowley presses onward, “He was hungry. A bit out of it, I guess. You know, from the whole  _ not eating _ thing. Anyway, we were hanging out, he was answering my questions, when all of a sudden we heard this sound. He looked up and there was this bird perched on one of the branches. He looked at it, then looked at me, and started laughing. ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked. He pointed at me and said ‘ _ Crawley,’ _ then to the bird and said ‘ _ Crow-ley.’”  _

Aziraphale stares at the demon, mouth agape. “You mean to tell me,” the angel says slowly, aghast and baffled and horribly amused, “That your chosen name comes from a remarkably horrible pun that  _ Jesus Christ the Messiah  _ came up with?!” 

Crowley smirks. “Yup.” 

The angel sits back; takes a long drink of wine. “Well,” he breathes. He’d considered a myriad of possibilities that might have led Crowley to his chosen name, but he’d never once thought it would come from an _ inside joke with Jesus.  _ “It’s an excellent name,” he says after allowing himself a moment to process the information, “You won’t like to hear me say it, but I think it’s rather sweet of you, to choose something so important. So sentimental.” 

Crowley grimaces. “You’re right,” he agrees, “I don’t like it. Demon’s aren’t sentimental.” 

“You are.” 

_ “Shhh,”  _ Crowley makes a show of pressing his finger to his lips, shushing the angel with dramatic flare. Aziraphale chuckles at that, then makes a motion of turning an invisible key in front of his lips, as if to lock them shut. He flicks away the make believe key for good measure. 

“I’ll say no more about it,” he promises. 

Crowley nods, grateful. His expression turns pensive a moment later, and his eyes, still somewhat guarded by the glasses, drift downward.

“I was supposed to betray him, you know.”

The angel stiffens. “What?” 

“Jesus,” Crowley clarifies. “I was supposed to betray him. Or, well, not me personally. Technically I was supposed to tempt Judas. Thirty silver, all that. Though actually I was supposed to have him do it for  _ twenty _ .” 

Aziraphale blinks, stunned. He can’t believe Crowley would do such a thing, not after all the stories he’s shared of their time together. Unless he took the name as penance. Though, if he’s honest with himself, he doubts Crowley would do such a thing. He doesn’t doubt his  _ ability _ ; only his  _ willingness _ . 

“I can’t imagine you would….”

Crowley shakes his head to confirm Aziraphale’s suspicions. “Nah. Skipped town. Knew it was gonna happen regardless of what I did, and I also knew I couldn’t stop it. But I didn’t want to participate in that mess. So I left.” He shrugs and drains the remainder of his wine before grabbing the bottle and refilling it to the point the wine nearly spills over. “Hell was  _ pissed. _ I told them  _ technically  _ since Jesus was  _ supposed _ to die anyway, my not doing what I was told technically hindered Heaven’s plan. It was a legality, but they bought it.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, reaching out to rest his hand on the demon’s that is laying on the table. “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for you… and then you came back…” 

The demon shrugs, blinking back tears. “I told Hell I wanted to watch him suffer, so I could attend the crucifiction.” He grimaces, drains his cup, then stands, his hand slipping from the angel’s. “Come on, angel. I don’t feel like being around humans anymore.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, miracling up some money and throwing it down onto the table. He follows the demon outside, where the sun has nearly set. The evening air is cool and pleasant, and blessedly the streets are nearly empty. They walk side by side, silent and contemplative. Aziraphale feels a little guilty at bringing up what is clearly a sore subject for Crowley. The demon and Jesus were good friends, it seems, and despite their long years on earth, despite being quite familiar with the short lifespan of humans, it’s always far worse when a human (or, somewhat human) they  _ like _ passes on. Aziraphale has had a few close human acquaintances in his millennia here on earth, and each loss has been sorrowful. But the death of Jesus seems to weigh the demon down in a way Aziraphale has yet to really experience. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly as he follows Crowley. He has no idea where they’re going, but he allows the demon to lead- though he wonders if he’s wrong to assume Crowley is leading them  _ anywhere _ . “I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories.”

“You didn’t,” Crowley says softly, “That whole affair was unpleasant- the crucifixion, I mean- but it wasn’t your fault. ‘Sides, I like talking about him. Especially with you.” 

Aziraphale pauses and Crowley follows suit. “Why?” 

The demon shrugs. “You two are my favorite people- um… divine, man-shaped beings. I talked to him about you a lot. Makes sense to do the opposite.” 

Despite the cool air, Aziraphale feels his cheeks flush. “You talked about  _ me?”  _

“Yeah,” Crowley shrugs as he continues walking. Aziraphale follows. 

“What did you say?” 

Crowley glances at him; winks. “Fishing for compliments, eh?” 

“Hardly,” he scoffs. A pause. “...Maybe.” 

“Well, don’t worry, angel,” Crowley laughs, “It was all  _ good _ things. Told him about some of the things we’ve gotten up to over the millennia. Told him about the whole sword thing- he found that quite hilarious.” 

Aziraphale tuts. “Oh,  _ really- _ “ 

“I mean… nothing specific. You were my only friend up until him, what  _ else  _ was I gonna talk about?” 

The demon takes a few more steps, then stops when he realizes the angel isn’t following him. He turns, noticing that Aziraphale is still, staring at him with wide eyes and hands twisting around one another in that nervous way of his. 

“What?” Crowley asks, taking a few steps back toward the angel. 

“Do… do you  _ really _ consider us-“ the angel stops and glances around, eyes lingering upward for several moments before he lowers his gaze back to Crowley, but let’s the word hang silently between them. 

“After last night, after  _ today-  _ do you really have to ask that?” 

The angel looks down. “Well, no. I suppose not. It’s only….” he looks back up, expression soft and kind and loving, “We’ve never really…  _ acknowledged _ such a thing before.”

“You literally did, just this morning.” 

The angel huffs. “Not in so many words. And- I’m not complaining, mind!- I just…” he stops and smiles brightly, “It’s nice to know, is all; that you feel the same. Our existence is a lonely one... at times.” 

Crowley offers the angel a knowing look. “At times,” he agrees. 

They continue walking at that, silently enjoying the simplicity of each other’s company. After a few more minutes, they arrive at Crowley’s room. Crowley stops at the entrance. “Want to come in for a drink?” 

The angel hesitates. He  _ wants _ to say yes, but he knows he shouldn’t. He’s already risked a great deal, spending so much time with Crowley. If Heaven were to see… it doesn’t bear thinking about, so Aziraphale doesn’t think on it. But it’s a risk, nonetheless. One he can’t continue to take if he’s sincere in his desire to keep the demon safe from Heaven’s holy wrath. 

But today has been so lovely… he loathes to see it end. 

“Best not,” he says, hating himself for it. He doesn’t look at Crowley; knows if he does, he’ll see a poorly hidden look of disappointment, and he so hates to disappoint his friend. 

“No problem,” Crowley says with a lightness that they both know is forced. “Probably not wise.”

“Definitely not.” 

The demon takes a faltering step backward. “Well. I’ll… see you around.” 

He turns, and the two parts of Aziraphale that struggle with wanting to protect Crowley and wanting to be with Crowley collide in a sudden explosion of nerves and desire and worry, and the impact within is so strong it causes the angel to cry out. 

The demon turns. 

“Um,” Aziraphale falters. “T-tomorrow? We could meet again… if you like…” 

Yesterday, the demon’s countenance had been prickly, rigid and standoffish when they met. The past day has melted that icy exterior that is so new and strange for Aziraphale to see on the demon, and for a moment the old Crowley- the carefree and excitable demon who, despite everything, was so  _ pleased _ with the world- emerges. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. I’d like that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Up in Chapter Four: In the final installment in Rome, Aziraphale and Crowley keep growing closer. But when outside forces threaten everything they've built so far, they have to make a decision that will change everything.


	4. Chapter Four - Rome, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the final installment in Rome, Aziraphale and Crowley keep growing closer. But when outside forces threaten everything they've built so far, they have to make a decision that will change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I mentioned starting this fic because of the stress of my job during the pandemic... well, that stress finally took a physical toll because I have a horrible back spasm on my left side and I am in so much pain, but man the muscle relaxers they gave me are nice... that said, I can’t vouch for how well edited this chapter is 😬 apologies for any errors. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. I don’t think. Oh lord, I don’t even know at this point.

* * *

**Chapter Four - Rome, Part III**

  
They meet the next day. And the next. And the next. 

They dine together frequently, attend market days to inspect the wares of the citizens, and above all else, talk. 

Eight years isn’t a long time; not when they’ve lived for several millennia already, but that short expanse of time without contact seems to have left them both craving the attention and companionship of the other; as if the loneliness they carried from that fateful day in Golgotha is an enemy they’ve decided to destroy together. They spend a great deal of time in each other’s company. They speak of good deeds and bad deeds and adventures and humans and their creations that were more remarkable than the rest. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t been to the Great Library!” Aziraphale exclaims one sunny afternoon as they lounge in Aziraphale’s room in an attempt to escape the crowds and the heat. 

“ _ Why _ would I go?” Crowley asks incredulously, “It’s a bunch of scrolls and books. ‘S’not really all that interesting.”

The demon watches as the angel’s face contorts into some kind of restrained rage and contempt. “Just a bunch of-“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head, “I have  _ never  _ been so-  _ so…”  _

“Amusing?” Crowley offers with a laugh. 

“Amuse-!” Aziraphale huffs and stands up, beginning to pace. “There is nothing amusing about this! The Library of Alexandria is- is- is one of humanity’s greatest triumphs!” Aziraphale exclaims heatedly. “ _ Just a bunch of scrolls and books _ ! Why I never-“ 

“Angel! I’m sorry!” The demon laughs as he watches Aziraphale try and process the utter betrayal he’s apparently feeling. “I’m sorry. I take it back. They’re  _ important _ scrolls. Very good, informative books.” 

The angel stops pacing at that, but he does glare down his nose at the demon. “You’re just saying that so I won’t be angry with you,” he huffs, then plops back down on the floor. 

Crowley blinks, suddenly nervous. “Are you angry with me?” 

Aziraphale glares at him, but the demon can see a small smile fighting to curl one side of the angel’s mouth upward. “No, you insufferable demon,” he sighs. “But I am  _ truly _ offended. I’ll have you know that library contains some of the most important information and literature-“ 

He launches into a long-winded lesson about the library; how grand it has been in its prime, and how it’s a shame that things aren’t quite what they were. “I hope my next assignment takes me closer to Egypt. I’d love to visit the library again. I do miss it so.” He sighs, then looks up with a brilliant smile. “Perhaps if we are both assigned somewhere close to it, I could take you!”

The thought of watching the angel peruse a library  _ does _ have appeal, though that thought is quickly squashed by a daunting and unpleasant reality: 

“Are you expecting a new assignment soon?” 

The angel stops praising the library to give Crowley a nervous look. It’s been a couple weeks since Crowley has seen the worry wrinkle Aziraphale’s face. He hates to be the cause of such an expression. He hates that his question has caused the angel’s hands to clasp together at his front, wringing together nervously as he glances about, as if half expecting a heavenly agent to suddenly with said missive. “Well…” he hesitates, “We can’t really expect to be left alone for much longer. I assume one of us will get a new mission relatively soon. Why? Are you here for an extended period?” 

“No,” the demon says softly, “Just… s’pose I sort of…  _ forgot _ … for a moment. About assignments and tempting and thwarting.” 

“Ah,” the angel breathes. A small smile flickers for a moment on his lips, only noticeable because Crowley has spent the past couple weeks observing them studiously. Longingly. “I’m afraid I can’t quite forget. Not when I have their expectations and disappointment weighing down upon me at all times.” 

Crowley’s eyes snap up to meet the angel’s. “Disa-“ he blurts, scandalized, “What do you mean  _ disappointment?!” _

Aziraphale shrugs and looks away. “Well, I can't quite say for certain… but I have the strong suspicion that my superiors don’t really...  _ like _ me.” 

“What?” Crowley exclaims, “What’s not to like?! You’re the most… ugh-  _ good  _ being I’ve ever encountered. You gave away your sword for Someone’s sake! To protect the ones She banished!”

“Yes, let’s not bring that up,” Aziraphale shushes him hastily, “Gabriel doesn’t know- I don’t think- and I’d like to keep it that way. God may not have said much, but if  _ he _ finds out-“ 

“Wait,” Crowley holds up a hand. “Wait wait wait. I thought  _ the Almighty never actually mentioned it again _ .”

Crowley watches as the angel’s cheeks turn red. “She… well. She asked once. It’s rather embarrassing; let’s change the subject.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, no way,” Crowley says, sitting on his knees, excited and intrigued, “You said she didn’t say much. What did She say when you told Her?” 

The angel looks down. “I, uh… well… I didn’t  _ exactly… _ tell Her… what happened.” 

“So  _ what  _ did you tell her happened?” The demon presses, leaning forward so far he nearly topples over in his excitement. 

“Just that…. I… put it down…. somewhere…” 

Crowley makes a strangled noise and the angel looks up. The demon is utterly  _ delighted.  _ “You  _ lied to God? _ And you  _ weren’t  _ smited?! Smitten…?”

“Um….No? She seemed content to simply let it go, so I’ve never actually seen the necessity to bring it up again.” 

“Blessed…. _ shit,  _ angel! That is  _ amazing!”  _ Crowley laughs heartily at the thought of Aziraphale lying to God, and it gets funnier to him by the moment. 

As he laughs, Aziraphale studies the demon, then, both because he wants his curiosity satisfied and because he wants to change the subject, asks, “Why do you do that?” 

The demon stops laughing, and does a quick mental check of everything he’s just done, as if trying to pinpoint what might have offended his companion, beyond the laughter. “What?” 

“Why do you always call me  _ angel?”  _

Crowley sobers. “Oh,” he says, looking away, “‘S what you are.” 

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale argues, moving to sit across from Crowley once more. Their knees touch from where they’re both cross-legged, and it’s all Crowley can you to not focus entirely on the faint pressure of that singular point of contact.

“Coming from you,” Aziraphale says before trailing off, eyes downcast toward their knees as well. “It…” 

“It what?” 

The angel hesitates for a moment. This is getting too close to dangerous territory. It’s the kind of thing they  _ definitely shouldn’t be doing _ on a long list of things they shouldn’t be doing. But Crowley is watching him, and Aziraphale is tired of keeping his feelings so tightly wrapped up and hidden. It hurts, to be so tightly wound all the time, and for a moment he contemplates how it might feel to take a bit of a risk. He  _ did _ lie to God after all. Surely a moment of truth won’t lead him to utter ruin. 

“It’s almost affectionate,” he whispers. 

The demon stares at him for a long moment. “Issss that… bad?” He can’t help but hiss a little. 

“No,” the angel confesses breathlessly, “Not bad at all. Just unexpected. Hearing it come from you, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing to be.” 

The demon scoffs. “That’s because you’re the  _ only one _ worthy of the name,” he replies simply. “You’re kind, angel. Always have been. Anyone else would’ve smited me and bragged about it. You…” he gestures to his head, “Sheltered me from the rain. You talk to me. You give me  _ space.  _ Hell is so crowded, Aziraphale. It’s claustrophobic, and even though I don’t need to breathe, I feel like I’m suffocating. But you make it all easier. Knowing I’ll get to sit with you, drink with you, talk with you… it makes me feel like maybe She managed to get  _ one _ thing right.” 

“That’s blasphemous,” Aziraphale whispers, but his heart isn’t in the words. 

“I’m the walking embodiment of blasphemy,” Crowley says with a shrug, “But when I’m around you I don’t… I don’t  _ feel _ like I’m some unforgivable monster. You make me feel…. well,  _ better _ , I s’pose.” 

“ _ Oh,  _ Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, heart feeling fit to burst. He reaches out, laying his hand on top of Crowley’s, which causes the demon to gasp and tense up. Thinking perhaps he overstepped, the angel begins to retract his hold on Crowley’s hand, when those long, slender fingers shift and entwine with Aziraphale’s. 

Staring down at their joined hands, the angel lets out a long, slow sigh at just how  _ right _ it feels to be so joined. It’s a simple gesture; hardly anything, really. But Aziraphale isn’t used to such affection, to say that the warmth of Crowley’s skin against his is mesmerizing. 

They sit in contemplative silence for several long moments, both watching their entwined hands as if they were something foreign and dangerous. Finally, Crowley clears his throat and speaks, but doesn’t offer to move his hand. 

“Anyway, back to your original point,” he says, voice a little hoarse, which doesn’t escape the angel’s notice, “I haven’t gotten a new assignment.” 

“Nor have I,” Aziraphale echoes, “Heaven has been… rather quiet, actually. Plenty of assignments, but mostly I find a letter with instructions. Gabriel used to hand deliver them, but in the past eight years, I’ve felt a strange disconnect with head office. As if they can’t be bothered to come here themselves. As if Earth were genuinely beneath them. You know, in a metaphorical sense.” 

“It’s the same with Hell,” Crowley acknowledges, shifting his hand experimentally to touch their palms together. Aziraphale’s palm is soft and warm, and Crowley absently runs his fingers against the soft flesh there. “No real communication; just the occasional scroll with instructions left in whatever room I’m staying in.” 

“Peculiar,” Aziraphale breathes softly, staring at where their hands touch. He looks up sharply, “Th- their absence, I mean.” 

Crowley nods. “Just means I have a longer reprieve between assignments. More time to spend…”  _ With you, _ he wants to say, “Doing my own thing,” he says instead. 

“Yes,” the angel agrees, “We both seem to have managed to have some time off, however unofficial.” 

“Want to continue enjoying it together?” The demon asks softly, almost shyly. 

Instinct tells Aziraphale to say  _ no.  _ Close proximity with the demon is not wise; never has been. He doesn’t want to think about what Heaven might do to him if he’s caught with the demon, but even more he fears what Hell might do with a demon who they think has gone soft. He can’t justify it, the danger of their companionship, but neither can he deny how lovely it is to spend time with him, to break bread and drink wine with him. To talk and argue and tease. To hold his hand… 

A small part of him fears this might be a temptation; might be Crowley playing some long con to manipulate him. But when he looks up at the demon, he sees nothing to suggest wickedness or ill intent. He sees the face of the being he’s spent thousands of years getting to know. They’ve only spent a small amount of time together, in the grand scheme of the earth’s linear time progression, but those moments sprinkled throughout decades and centuries of loneliness are some of the brightest and most enjoyable Aziraphale has known. 

The sincerity in Crowley’s eyes tells him the demon shares a similar opinion. 

It’s dangerous; but what is life without taking risks? 

“Yes.” 

—

They don’t spend every moment together; each has other interests, acquaintances to meet, and minor blessings and temptations they desire to perform. But they meet each evening, as dependable as the sun setting. And for two more weeks, they enjoy a sort of strangely formed paradise. There is a distinct lack of a garden or fruit trees, but there is a small hovel of a room and an abundance of wine and an endless trove of things to say. 

For two weeks, Aziraphale and Crowley grow closer; it’s taken them a few thousand years to reach this point, but now that they are more closely orbiting each other, they seem to make up for the time they lost before. They talk, laugh, tease, flirt, and even drunkenly sing a few songs that results in more than one noise complaint from neighbors. 

It’s too good to last, and so naturally when Aziraphale enters his rented room one morning after taking a trip to the market to find a scroll sitting on his bed, he isn’t surprised. 

What he  _ is, _ is heartbroken. 

He unrolls the scroll, and sees the neat, flowing script of Gabriel’s hand. 

_ Principality Aziraphale,  _

_ Report to Egypt immediately. Big things are happening. More information to follow upon your arrival.  _

_ -The Archangel Gabriel _

The scroll, normally tucked away safely for Aziraphale’s records, crumples in the angel’s fist. He feels something stir in his gut, like a tremor on the ground before the eruption of a volcano. But rather than molten fire, it’s tears that spill from the angel. 

It had been too good to last. He’d gotten complacent. He’d gotten comfortable. 

Now he’s going to lose everything he and Crowley have spent the past weeks carefully constructing. He has a job to do, after all. They both do. They have distinct, opposing purposes, and to think anything lasting could be forged is downright foolish. But then Aziraphale thinks back over the past several weeks. The comfort and contentment that being with Crowley had inspired. The happiness and giddiness. The laughter. The love-

Aziraphale freezes. 

Those thoughts are dangerous. Deadly. He goes to shove them back down, tucked away where they can’t be found, but after a moment, stops. Thinks back to eight years ago, when under great duress he’d fled, and had spent a good amount of time trying not to let the questions blooming in his heart take root. But things have changed since then. He’s spent a great deal of time doing whatever Heaven has required of him. He’s spent his  _ entire existence  _ working, blessing,  _ obeying _ . Is it wrong to want one thing for his own? One thing removed from Heaven, for him to cherish? 

A demon is about as far removed from Heaven as one can get. 

Wiping his face with his other hand, he tries to control himself. They knew this would happen. It had only been a matter of time. 

But this time, Aziraphale isn’t going to leave without saying goodbye. 

—

He barely knocks before the door is flung wide open. Crowley is standing before him, glasses missing, which allows the angel to see where his eyes are solid gold, wet from tears that have yet to follow their companions down his cheeks. 

“You got one, too.” 

It’s not a question, which therefore answers Aziraphale’s own. He nods wordlessly. The demon sighs and steps back, motioning for the angel to enter. 

“Where’re they sending you?” 

“Egypt,” Aziraphale mutters, “I suppose I got my wish.” 

He glances up, hoping to see Crowley’s expression brighten. That maybe he is stationed nearby; maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. His hope is instantly dashed when the demon’s face crumbles. 

“Germany,” he breathes. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale exclaims softly, the word punched out of him more than an actual response. “I see.” 

The demon sighs and slides to the ground where a bottle of wine is already half empty. “‘M to leave  _ immediately,  _ it says.” 

“As am I,” Aziraphale replies, uncertain if he should join Crowley on the floor or not. As it is, he feels weak-kneed, like the ground on which he stands is falling away beneath him. He can’t do this; he doesn’t  _ want _ to do this. He doesn’t  _ want _ to go to Egypt and wait for further instruction and then do whatever he’s told and then wait for  _ further _ instruction. He wants to bless people at his leisure, and leave the meddling of greater affairs to the humans who are clever enough to imagine such scenarios. He wants to walk with Crowley down the street, uncaring of who sees them. He wants to call the demon his friend, his companion, his- 

A sob escapes the angel, causing Crowley to look up from his own musings. Concern darkens his already blackened gaze. “Angel-“ 

“I don’t want to go,” Aziraphale says hurriedly, pressing a hand to his mouth the moment the words spill forth. 

Crowley blinks. Stands up. “What?” 

Wearily, Aziraphale sighs and reaches out to take Crowley’s hand. In the weeks they’ve spent together, their hands have drifted together while they talk, though neither has dared acknowledge it. To bring it to light means it has to be addressed, and neither have deemed it necessary; not when they had time. 

The demon’s other hand clasps the angel’s. 

“I don’t want to go,” Aziraphale says again, with more force in the words, as if to prove he means them. “I… don’t want to leave you.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, eyes searching the angel’s as if looking for a sign of untruth. 

“But we have to go,” Aziraphale says with equal determination, “But-“ he stops and squeezes Crowley’s hand, “I cannot leave until I have told you something… something I very much am afraid to say.” 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Crowley whispers. 

The angel smiles sadly as if to say  _ yes I do.  _ But nevertheless he takes a slow breath, then exhales. Then he speaks. “Yes, well. I… I told you before that I valued our association. I’m afraid I was not  _ entirely  _ truthful.”

Crowley blinks; leans back ever so slightly. “Oh?” 

“The truth is much greater than that. I value you, certainly, but my feelings are far deeper, far greater. I feel a certain... devotion... to you that I’ve never felt for anything or anyone,” he says, emphasizing the words to ensure Crowley feels the weight of them. They’re heavy, after all, and the way the demon’s hand tightens in his own tells Aziraphale the message is received. 

“And I know that by all rights, by our very natures, you shouldn’t be as precious to me as you are, but I firmly believe in ineffability, regardless of your opinion on the matter, and I truly feel that this… this  _ thing _ between us is exactly that. I  _ can’t _ put  _ this _ -“ he lifts their joined hands, “Into words. I have the words, but they are buried deep, where it’s safe. I can’t speak them. Not when anyone could hear. But I need you to know they are there.” 

Aziraphale expects silence. He expects Crowley will need a moment to process the depth of what Aziraphale has just confessed; maybe need a moment to work out the puzzle of his words. He thinks Crowley might need a moment to decide what to say in return, if he chooses to say anything, or if he will-

“I feel the same.” 

Aziraphale blinks. He’d been looking at their hands, unable to meet Crowley’s gaze as he blasphemed against Heaven, but now he looks up to see Crowley is also staring at their hands, joined together and trembling. 

Aziraphale breathes softly, hesitantly asks, “My dear?” 

Crowley doesn’t answer for a long moment. He stares down, fixated on their hands, and Aziraphale notices for the first time that there is a small patch of scales on Crowley’s knuckles. 

“How you feel. I know what you’re afraid to say. And I reciprocate. Times a hundred. No, a  _ thousand _ .” 

Aziraphale takes a shuddering breath, and feels his heart, that strange muscle that normally lies dormant in his chest, tremble to life with a few stuttering beats. 

“...You do?” 

A scratchy, almost-laugh escapes Crowley. “It’s the word I wanted to use the moment you told me you gave away your sword back in Eden.” 

“What?” Aziraphale blinks, astonished.. “So… so  _ soon?  _ We had just met!” 

Finally Crowley looks up, and Aziraphale is struck by his beauty, by how utterly desperate and helpless he looks. “And in that moment I knew everything I needed to know to make me fall in lo-“ “ 

“Please don’t!” Aziraphale cuts him off. 

“What?” The demon challenges, “Not a fan of  _ Fall  _ jokes?” 

Aziraphale glares as he realizes the play on words. “Well now that you mention it,  _ no.  _ But beyond that, I…” he squeezes Crowley’s hand, “I may  _ feel  _ it, but I am dreadfully afraid of…  _ admitting _ it aloud. It has nothing to do with you, please understand. Any hesitancy I feel has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with…” His gaze drifts upwards. 

“They aren’t listening, angel,” Crowley says softly, “I don’t think they have been for a long time. And to be honest, if that’s what we’re doing right now- I don’t think they care about Earth or the humans! I think this is all just some- some- some chess game to them. And we’re  _ all  _ pawns! I mean,  _ think about it _ , angel. Everything is done in the name of this blasted capital-p plan. My friend had to  _ di _ e! No,” he shakes his head, snarling, “He had to  _ suffer!  _ Meanwhile we can’t even confess how we feel for each other out of the fear that Above and Below will swallow us up for daring to want something that’s just ours!” 

The demon releases Aziraphale’s hand and steps back, running his hands through his hair. “I’m not trying to tempt you into anything you don’t want to do, Aziraphale. But we’re both tired. We’re both lonely. We both  _ want _ this… so why don’t we take it?” 

“You make an excellent point,” Aziraphale relents thoughtfully, wringing his hands together, trying to memorize how gentle and warm Crowley’s touch had been, “Though I’m afraid, no matter how much I agree, I will never not be afraid of what will happen when they find out. And I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you-“ he cuts himself off, biting back a sob at the mere thought of something unpleasant happening to Crowley. 

The demon steps closer and places his hands on Aziraphale’s forearms, and if he weren’t so focused on trying to comfort the angel, he’d revel in the soft gasp that slips from Aziraphale’s lips. Maybe later. 

“I’m not asking you to stop being afraid,” Crowley says softly, “I’m asking you to let us give this a chance  _ in spite of _ that fear. We don’t have to be on opposite sides, not really. We can co-exist. Fuck, we’ve been doing it for over a month! Heaven and Hell have their Great Plan. What if-“ he pauses, eyes widening as an idea occurs. “What if we have our  _ own _ Plan?” 

“Our own plan,” the angel breathes. The idea has merit. 

“Just us. You and me. A refuge from all the bullshit we have to endure out there,” he points toward the door, toward the outside world. “Aziraphale, I lo-“ 

He’s cut off quickly by a hand pressed against his lips. 

“Please don’t say it,” Aziraphale pleads, “I believe you. I reciprocate. But I am so dreadfully  _ afraid,  _ Crowley! I couldn’t bear it if they hurt you because of me. I shouldn’t agree with you, but I  _ do. _ Can that be enough? Can we… can we simply  _ know  _ it to be true? It would put my mind at ease, if it is left unsaid. No one can overhear what is not spoken.” 

Crowley sighs, weary, but there’s a spark of light in his eyes; a look of contentment that the angel has never seen before. “I can do that. So long as you  _ know _ .” 

“Oh, I do, my most darling one. And I hope you  _ know _ as well.” 

Crowley rests his forehead against the angel’s. “I do, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale smiles, relieved. “Good.” 

—

They establish ground rules. It’s a must, Aziraphale explains, in order for them to maintain plausible deniability should they be questioned. Crowley rolls his eyes, but agrees, because he doesn’t like to see the angel fret. And now that Aziraphale knows how he feels, Crowley feels a little more comfortable indulging the angel in ways he might not have been able to explain away before. 

So he agrees, and they quickly come up with a few ground rules that are intended to keep them safe from Above or Below’s prying gazes. 

First, they cannot directly confess their feelings. It is understood that no matter what they must do in accordance to their jobs, that what they feel is strong and true and real. Even if it must remain hidden, a tiny flame buried under a bushel, it’s there, their own little secret. 

Second, they cannot engage in any physical intimacy, beyond that which they’ve already shared. Crowley groans in despair at that one, but Aziraphale’s logic that if they can be  _ heard  _ they can just as easily be  _ seen _ , and an act of the word they do not speak would be indefensible if caught. 

Third, no matter how far apart they are, no matter for how long, they will keep in touch. Letters are dangerous, but can be explained away if precautions are taken. It’s a risky concession, but Aziraphale does admit that it eases the ache of separation, to know they have a way to communicate. They’ll never sign their name to any letters, and they’ll never use miracles to send or receive them. It’s convoluted, but it’s safe. 

Fourth, they promise that no matter what, they’ll always have Rome, and nothing will take this moment in time away from them. 

With the rules in place, they clasp each other’s hands, and then with a nod, Aziraphale says goodbye, turns, and leaves. 

He doesn’t look back, so he won’t see Crowley’s tears. And so Crowley won’t see his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now taking bets on how long those rules last. 
> 
> Chapter Five: 1066, England. Our star-crossed lovers meet while on assignment, reflect on the past, and embrace the time they have together.


	5. England, 1066

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1066, England. Our star-crossed lovers meet while on assignment, reflect on the past, and embrace the time they have together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the views, comments, and kudos. They are very much appreciated! 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

**England, 1066**

“It’s all rather… garish… isn’t it?”

Aziraphale stands beside Crowley, watching the spectacle of the coronation before them. It’s been a long time since their last meeting- four years, in fact- and while Aziraphale knows he probably shouldn’t interact with the demon while on the job, he can’t resist. The job is relatively easy, and so he allows himself this concession. Besides, they’re just standing. Heaven nor Hell could condemn them for simply standing nearby one another during a job. 

Besides, he’s missed Crowley. 

Letters and short meetings over the centuries have been fine, but there’s an ache in the angel's heart that can only be soothed by the presence of his beloved. He shifts a little closer to the demon; it’s perfectly feasible- the crowd is large. People are bumping one another in an attempt to see, and so the angel allows himself to press a little closer to Crowley. He feels the demon catch a couple fingers in his own, squeezing gently before letting go. 

“What’s garish?” 

Aziraphale gestures vaguely around them as the coronation carries on, oblivious to the two supernatural spectators. 

“All of this,” the angel whispers. “Bloody, messy business, and all for what? To reign over a bit of land for a few years before he’s inevitably overthrown or dies?”

Crowley shrugs. “‘S’all they have, angel. Land. And time to figure out how to take land that others have claimed.” 

Aziraphale sighs and turns away from the ceremony. He has no real interest in watching. “Coming?” He asks as he takes a few steps away from the crowd. After a moment he feels Crowley’s presence to his left.

“It is good to see you, considering,” Aziraphale says at length, when they’re away from the crowd. He leans heavily against a wall and looks off in the distance. “I’m meant to be whispering inspiration to a few select gentlemen to encourage a rebellion against that chap. The one with the ridiculous crown.”

“William,” Crowley supplies blankly, joining Aziraphale against the wall, “Funny. I’m meant to be doing the same.” 

Aziraphale gives his companion a sharp, surprised look. “How odd! Both sides want him removed?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Seems that way. Who’ve you got to talk to? Maybe if we have some crossover we can divy them up, save some time. Use the time we save to catch up?” 

The angel feels where Crowley has shifted closer to him and has to bite back a smile. “I have a list of names back in the room where I’m staying.”

The demon grins. “How lucky for us.” 

—

“This is it?” 

They’re sitting on two cushions on the floor of Aziraphale’s room, backs pressed against the wall. Aziraphale’s legs are stretched out be for them; Crowley is curled in on himself, twisted close to the angel, as coiled as he can be while in human form. In his hands, he’s holding a piece of parchment from Heaven that lists the angel’s directive: encourage dissent with William the Conqueror. Below the message is a list of twenty names. Crowley had thought there’d be more, somehow. 

“That’s it,” the angel confirms. He’d been surprised as well. This missive from Above had been the only instruction he’d received in quite some time, and he’d been more than annoyed at just how  _ vague _ his instructions were. When the world began, indeed, even so recently as when the Messiah had been announced, Heaven had been in close contact with earth. Gabriel had even come himself to deliver the news to the young woman who would serve as Jesus’ earthly mother, but ever since the day of the crucifixion, Above had scarcely shown themselves. Aziraphale can’t recall the last time he’d seen any other ethereal forces on earth. 

“Not much clearer than my own,” Crowley shrugs as he hands Aziraphale his own letter. “Figured Hell was being obtuse because they like to fuck with me; now I see it must be a ‘higher up’ thing. I’ll have to keep this in mind. Senseless memos from head office with unclear instructions. Might cause a good bit of mischief should humans ever develop a similar system down here.” 

“Their bureaucratic inefficiency certainly is impressive,” Aziraphale agrees as he compares the two letters. Of the twenty on his own and the twenty-two on Crowley’s, fourteen names match up. “Right,” he says, “I’ll take these nine here. You take the other five.” 

“Hold on, now,” Crowley frowns, “Why are you taking more?” He takes his list back from the angel, studying it carefully. “You’re trying to win more to your side and that’s cheating!” 

“How is it cheating when we are doing the exact same thing?” Aziraphale huffs, “I’m not taking more. You have more names on your list than I do. I was merely trying to even up the task!” He sniffs, and tilts his nose to the air, “But if you want  _ more work _ , I’ll let you have two of them back.” 

“‘Course I don’t want  _ more work!”  _ Crowley huffs as he uses a small miracle to magically alter their letters so only the names of those they will contact are remaining. “I hate talking to humans, sometimes. Most of ‘em are fine, but then you get a few who just…” he shivers in distaste, “I mean, look at why we’re  _ here _ , angel. This whole mess is-“ he stops. 

“Messy?” Aziraphale supplies. 

“Exactly.” 

“Humans are very complex,” Aziraphale agrees as he slides his letter away, “I feel as if I barely manage to understand them as they are before they change again. Makes it rather difficult to keep up.” 

“Which is why I’m not starting on my list for  _ at least _ a week,” the demon says as he stretches, twisting his back and causing several vertebrates to  _ pop _ in sequence. “Maybe they’ll revolt on their own. Half the time I’m not so much planting chaos and discord as I am just encouraging them to do whatever madness they’ve already concocted themselves.”

“They are quite imaginative,” Aziraphale muses thoughtfully. 

“Especially when it comes to getting drunk,” Crowley says as he produces a bottle of sweet wine with a miracle. “Which I’d  _ love _ to do. Join me?” 

Aziraphale takes the bottle. “Love to.” 

—

They’re not drunk- not by a long shot- but the buzz of alcohol has them pleasantly relaxed. They’re still slumped against the wall, pressed shoulder to shoulder, whispering and talking and giggling as they pass secrets and wine back and forth between them. 

At some point, Crowley- who is quite the giggly drunk, though Aziraphale knows he’ll deny it- slinks down in a fit of laughter and lets his head rest on the angel’s shoulder. 

The weight and warmth of having Crowley so close causes the angel to reflect on when they’d met a few centuries back as knights, Aziraphale representing the Table Round and Crowley… doing whatever it was he’d been doing. It had been so long since they’d seen one another they’d agreed to a truce, both setting up camp side by side and retiring to Aziraphale’s tent to talk while their respective men eyed each other warily from their side of the camp. 

They’d talked about their missions at first, keeping things strictly business, but before long they’d slipped into other conversations. Catching up had always been fun, each sharing entertaining stories of their exploits on earth. They’d drank then too, and after a while, Crowley had dropped his head onto the angel’s shoulder, murmuring sleepily about how he’d missed Aziraphale, and had wanted nothing more than a moment to just coexist. 

Aziraphale brings up that night in Wessex, a touch more loose-lipped thanks to several bottles of wine. Crowley hums in reply. 

“That was a good night,” he murmurs as he stays curled against the angel. “Hadn’t seen you in ages. Felt good. Feels good now.” 

“It does indeed,” Aziraphale agrees, debating on whether or not he should wrap his arm around Crowley as he’s seen couples do before. They’ve remained steadfast in their commitment to never speak of their feelings, but their resolution to not engage in physical contact has not been quite so maintained. 

The demon is warm. And the night is cool. 

“Missed you, angel,” Crowley murmurs, half asleep against Aziraphale, “Don’t like going this long without seeing you.” 

“Nor I, dear boy,” the angel whispers. This is dangerous; he shouldn’t be entertaining this. But Crowley is warm and cuddly, and Aziraphale is half-drunk on wine and half-drunk on overwhelming affection for his companion. 

Determined, he shifts, which causes the demon to groan. “One moment, my dear,” the angel says, shifting so his arm is around Crowley’s shoulders; hand resting on the demon’s arm. 

So much for that rule. 

Crowley sighs and shifts closer. “‘Perfect.” 

Aziraphale lets his cheek rest against Crowley’s head. “Yes,” he breathes, feeling contentment settle over him like a blanket, “It is.” 

—

Slowly, gently, consciousness comes to Aziraphale. He squints as a beam of sunlight slips past the closed drapes and hits his eyes, and he shifts to escape it. He’s warm, a little stiff but nothing a frivolous miracle can’t fix, but cozy. He shifts again, then freezes. His eyes snap open, and he turns his head to see that he is lying on the floor of his room, curled up with a still-sleeping Crowley. 

Panic sets in, causing his stomach to churn, though the angel takes a moment to wonder if perhaps that’s the alcohol he forgot to remove from his system the night prior. He does so with a wince, grateful when his stomach settles, though his heart is now picking up the slack. 

Beside him, Crowley is out, face buried in the crook of the angel’s shoulder. His arm is thrown over Aziraphale’s stomach, and the lines that have been inching their way across the demon’s face are smoother over in soft contentment. 

_ Oh, but he’s beautiful,  _ Aziraphale thinks softly. 

Half of him considers moving; slipping away from Crowley and letting the demon rest while he keeps his respectful distance. It’s only proper, he reasons, now that he’s awake and is aware of the position in which they’ve fallen into. He doesn’t know if Crowley would want this, and he certainly doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries, unspoken or otherwise. On the other hand… this is  _ lovely _ . Despite lying on a moderately uncomfortable floor, having Crowley snuggled up against him is more pleasant than the angel ever allowed himself to imagine. 

He needs to move away. Heaven could see at any moment; Hell could come blazing in and see what’s become of their number one tempter. This is dangerous. It’s against their rules. It’s  _ not supposed to happen _ . 

Crowley shifts against him, snuggling up tighter against the angel’s side, and Aziraphale knows the situation is hopeless. He can’t move. More importantly, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to. Slowly and with petulant stubbornness, Aziraphale closes his eyes and falls back asleep. 

When his eyes open again, he’s alone. With a groan that’s more disappointment than anything, Aziraphale sits up, only mildly surprised to see Crowley still close by, but curled up in a sitting position against the wall. The angel frowns in confusion. “My dear?” 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says quickly, “I didn’t mean for us to fall asleep. I didn’t mean for us to-“ he glances down to where they’d been laying. “I wasn’t trying to tempt you or- or anything, it just-“ 

“I know, my dear.” 

Aziraphale watches as the panic in Crowley’s expression melts and gives way for confusion. “What?” 

The angel huffs and scoots to sit beside Crowley, purposely pressing up against his side. “I am aware we fell asleep together.”

“You… are?” 

“Yes,” the angel says, “I woke up a little after dawn. You looked so comfortable in my arms, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you. I fell back asleep not long after.” He rubs his temple, “I’m still not quite used to sleeping. Such an odd sensation. I understand why you like it, but I’m not sure it’s something I particularly want to indulge in that often.” 

He can’t seem to disassociate sleeping from that first awful night he’d collapsed on his bedroll after the crucifixion. He’s been relatively put off from sleeping since then. Though waking up with Crowley in his arms  _ had _ been rather pleasant. 

Beside him, Crowley seems to be in shock. Either that, or he hasn’t fully woken up yet, and isn’t able to process Aziraphale’s words as quickly as normal. Aziraphale worries perhaps the demon is still under the effects of the alcohol they both consumed, and performs a quick miracle to clear the demon’s head. Crowley offers him a small, fleeting smile as thanks. 

“I thought…” Crowley says at last, running a hand through his hair. It’s a bit longer now than it’s been in decades. Aziraphale’s fingers itch to sink into those curls. “I thought this was against the rules. Figured you’d be upset.” 

“It is  _ absolutely _ against the rules,” the angel agrees, “However I find myself hard pressed to be upset about it. It would certainly have been more pleasant on a softer surface,” he nods toward the bedroll, “But as it stands, we have maintained our agreement for quite some time. And Heaven has been rather distant of late. So has Hell, if I’m to understand you correctly. I suppose an exception to the rules every now and then can’t hurt.” 

Crowley stares at him, slack jawed and impressed. “An angel breaking the rules? What  _ is _ the world coming to?”

“I  _ made _ the rules,” Aziraphale huffs, “I can alter them as I see fit.” 

The demon laughs. “So long as I get to benefit from said rule-breaking, I’m all for this blatant misuse of power.” 

“Oh,  _ please _ ,” Aziraphale scoffs, “You’re a demon. You’re all for rule-breaking, regardless of the motivation.” 

“Without a doubt,” the demon agrees, “But when those broken rules means I get to cozy up next to you? Even better.” 

Aziraphale sits silently for a long moment, hands wringing in his lap. He sees the opportunity presented before him, and takes a moment to consider if he should let it pass. It’s still risky; it’s still dangerous. 

But the best things in this world are. 

“It’s still early,” he says softly, “And I wasn’t planning to start on my list until this evening. And I think I’d like to experience this newly broken rule on a more pleasant surface. He stands and moves toward his bedroll. He sits on the edge, then looks to the demon expectantly. “Would you care to join me?” 

The way Crowley’s eyes light up makes the risk more than worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in Chapter Six: England, 1349. The Black Plague.


	6. Chapter Six - England, 1349

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles to obey his orders during the peak of the Black Plague; he and Crowley find comfort in each other and look for ways to help without drawing the eyes of their superiors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos. As always, it’s very much appreciated. 
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild description of disease, mentions of death, child death, burial, grief, depression

* * *

**  
Chapter Six- England, 1349**

  
The smell of death is everywhere. 

Hysteria grips the people almost as violently as the symptoms of the Great Pestilence. Humans who were well only hours prior suddenly are bedridden, and shortly thereafter, are dead. Those who are well submit to panic, and in the absence of a clear cause of the disease begin turning on one another, blaming the affliction on sin and any number of other things. Many who are sick have been abandoned. People have been driven away. Others parade through the streets, self-flagellating in theatrical penance. 

Aziraphale wipes away a mixture of sweat and tears from his cheeks, and goes back to soothing the cries of the little girl dying in his arms. 

He sings to her, a soft song in a dead language, and though she can’t understand the words, she seems to calm, until another bout of nausea strikes her, and she dry heaves into the pail Aziraphale miracles up. She has nothing left at this point, and collapses back into the angel’s embrace, sobbing in pain. 

She smells, of shit and vomit and the stench of rot, but Aziraphale can easily ignore those things, and he holds her closer, brushing her stringy hair out of her face, muttering a prayer and saying the last rites that so many humans take comfort in, but so many have been denied. 

After some time, the girl drifts off to sleep, then, several minutes later, goes still and stiff in the angel’s arms. 

He feels her spirit slip from her body. He does not weep for the girl, but feels a sort of disgusted anger at knowing the poor dear suffered needlessly. 

He could have healed her. 

He could heal hundreds of people. 

It wouldn’t solve the problem, but it would certainly _help_. 

But he’s not allowed to help. Technically, he shouldn’t even be doing this. His actions now are technically in open defiance of Heaven- of his _orders_ \- but as Aziraphale holds a dead child in his arms with thousands of others dying all around him, he can’t bring himself to care. The fact that a letter had appeared in his room a year and a half ago with explicit instructions _not to interfere_ drives Aziraphale up the wall with helpless madness. It makes no sense to let the humans suffer. But he’s under strict orders from Above, and while he fears what they might do if he disobeys, he can’t sit idly by and let the world fall to ruin around him. 

He feels as helpless and lost as the day he stood idly by and watched an innocent man suffer on a cross for far too long. And just as he had then, Aziraphale feels unwell and uneasy now. Surely doing nothing is the _wrong_ thing to do. 

He wonders if it’s bad to do the wrong thing for the right reason. Is it the action or the intent behind it that matters? Do both matter? Does any of it matter? Aziraphale sighs. This is one of those philosophical questions he’s not drunk enough to face. And at any rate, it’s more something Crowley would be able to answer. He has the luxury (or misfortune, depending on one's perspective) of having lived on both sides of the equation. If anyone would know, it would be him. 

But he hasn’t seen Crowley in over a year. And there are more pressing matters at hand, than morose musings on the morality of disobeying orders one considers unjust. 

Lifting the girl, Aziraphale leaves the hut that had been abandoned by her family the moment she expressed feeling unwell, and takes her to the edge of the nearby woods. Mass graves have been dug to accommodate the rapid death of so many, but the angel can’t bear the thought of this child’s body being tossed in with the masses. 

When he reaches a spot far enough out of the way from the path, he lays her body down, miracles a shovel, then begins to dig. The mindless task soothes him; lets him pierce the earth with a force that reflects the fury bubbling just under his corporeal form. Despite being a soldier, a guardian armed with a sword, Aziraphale has never been prone to violence. But the feeling of metal piercing earth, the crackle of dirt and roots breaking under the force of his hand feels good. He digs a little harder, grunting with the effort, and soon enough he’s broken a sweat, shoving the shovel into the earth like an automaton, wordlessly but furiously breaking the ground apart until he’s managed to dig a hole deep and wide enough to fit a small body. 

He drops the shovel, then picks up the child and with utmost care lays the child into her little grave. Then he lifts the shovel once more, gently filling the grave with earth, miracling it so some wildflowers always grow in this spot. 

He says a short prayer, more for her benefit than for any good it actually does, and turns away, gripping the solid wooden handle between clenched fists. He stands still, more akin to the guardian he once was than he’s been in some time, head bowed and anger bubbling in the space where he knows his heart rests. Where it can beat at his leisure, if he is so inclined to have a heartbeat. The way that poor child’s heart no longer can. 

His hands twist on the handle of the shovel, gripping so tightly that the wood splinters under his hand and snaps, the tool breaking in half. In surprise, Aziraphale looks down at the two pieces in his hand, and shock shifts into anger as seamlessly as water flows out of a cup when filled past the brim. With a shout, Aziraphale throws the shovel pieces as hard as he can, as far as he can, away from him and into the woods behind them. He hears them clatter against wood and stone, and only when it falls silent again does he realize he’s panting heavily, and he takes a moment to gather himself, checking the uncharacteristic anger and forcing it back into a box to be ignored in the back of his mind. 

He doesn’t have time for outbursts. He has work to do. 

The angel takes a few steps, determined to return to the village and begin this horrid process all over again. He hasn’t stopped to rest in days, and despite not needing sleep, he feels his being- both corporeal and spiritual- waver under the exhaustion and despair he feels. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he stops walking. He waits a moment, then sees a figure exit the woods perhaps three hundred feet from where he stands. The person is in black robes- which is not unusual, considering- but the shock of red hair brings Aziraphale a sense of relief and comfort he hasn’t felt in ages. 

“Crowley?” He calls out, breathless and hopeful. The figure stops and turns. Apparently upon recognition, the figure immediately begins walking briskly toward the angel, and so the angel moves in turn. The closer he gets, the more easily Aziraphale can see it _is_ in fact Crowley, and when they meet, neither seems to need to question the intent of the other. Their arms fling out, wrapping each other in a tight, desperate hug. 

“Oh, _Crowley,”_ Aziraphale sobs into the demon’s shoulder. He can feel Crowley’s body trembling as well, and clings tighter, crying over this senseless loss. 

They don’t speak for some time; simply hold one another. Aziraphale doesn’t know what has brought Crowley to this village, and he doesn’t care. All he knows is that those scrawny arms that are wrapped around him like a vice is the most welcome feeling he’s ever known, and suddenly things seem a little more bearable. If only just. 

Crowely seems content to stay wrapped up in Aziraphale’s embrace, and so the angel doesn’t push, doesn’t try to pull away. At this point he doesn’t even care if Heaven were to show up, wondering why an angel and demon are embracing. Aziraphale is certain if a Heavenly representative _were_ to show up now, they wouldn’t be able to get a word in for Aziraphale going off on them. 

After some time, when tears have run dry, Aziraphale leans back slightly to look at the demon. His eyes are fully yellow; his cheeks are red, puffy, and tear stained. He looks as miserable as Aziraphale feels and the angel lifts a hand to brush over his cheek, moving to tuck a few strands of hair behind Crowley’s ear. He watches, entranced, as the demon seems to melt under his touch. 

After a moment, he seems to remember himself, and stiffens, eyes opening wide and looking at Aziraphale with fear and something akin to panic.

“This isn’t me,” the demon says quickly, desperately, “ _Us._ This isn’t Hell.”

Something in Aziraphale’s chest deflates in relief at those words. He hadn’t thought it was Crowley. He’d initially wondered if it was Hell, but that fear had been waylaid by Heaven’s nonchalance over the situation. Surely if this had been Hell, his superiors would have wanted him to thwart the enemy. But the fact that it isn’t Hell, or Heaven… it fills him with another type of anxiety altogether. 

“It’s not us, either,” Aziraphale confirms for Crowley’s sake. 

He gives Aziraphale a look that seems to express the same confusion Aziraphale feels. What does it mean if neither of their sides are behind such a thing? 

“I have orders,” the demon whispers, tugging Aziraphale back to him, burying his head in the angel’s shoulder, seeking comfort. “Supposed to use this as an opportunity to spread panic. Whisper increasingly barbaric suggestions for how to combat it… but….” he trembles again, and the angel holds him tighter. 

“But?” 

“I just… I just _buried_ a little boy, Aziraphale! Couldn’t have been more than five!” Sobs wrack him again and he says no more about the boy. 

“I just buried a little girl,” Aziraphale whispers as he rubs his hand up and down Crowley’s back, trying to soothe him the way he’d cared for that very girl. “She was eleven.” 

He feels Crowley grip the fabric of his robe in a tightly clenched fist. “I tried to heal him,” he whispers, “I was too late.” 

“I’ve been forbidden from healing anyone,” Aziraphale confesses. He feels Crowley gasp, then stagger back, out of his embrace. 

“What?” He snarls, “ _Why?!”_

Aziraphale wraps his arms around himself and looks away. “I don’t know,” he breathes softly, “I haven’t asked.” He hesitates for a long moment, then finally sighs, “I’m afraid to.” 

“Why?” This time it’s asked softly; in understanding. 

The angel is silent for a long moment. Finally, he hangs his head. “I’m afraid I won’t like the answer.” 

The anger and rage that radiated from Crowley seems to settle to a low simmer, stunned by the angel’s confession. “Aziraphale…” 

Before Aziraphale can regain control of his words, they spill out. “This _has_ to be Heaven though, don’t you understand? Gabriel and the rest may not have sanctioned it, but everything is part of the _Divine Plan._ I’ve been taught that since the beginning. This,” he waves his hand around, gesturing vaguely, “Is all part of Her plan! And if everything is part of it, then does that not mean she _sanctions_ this? It’s not unlike Her to wipe out the human race- _we’ve both watched it happen._ I just…” 

He takes a trembling breath as the blasphemous nature of his words seems to catch up with him and choke him, “I… there _must_ be room for Ineffability, I know, but…” he sniffles and looks back to the grave he just dug, “But at what cost?” 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley breathes, looking as broken and lost as Aziraphale feels. “I don’t know.” He hesitates a moment, then steps forward again, and embraces the angel tightly. Aziraphale melts into the touch, returning it just as fully, and clings to the warmth and comfort of having Crowley so close in the midst of such devastation. 

“I know you can’t disobey your orders,” Crowley whispers softly, “But I wasn’t told _not_ to heal anyone. We can work together; you comfort those too far gone. I’ll heal those I can. If Hell asks, I’ll say I’m spreading chaos by healing people and then telling them lies about how it happened so they spread misinformation.” 

“Are you sure you can get away with it?” Aziraphale asks softly. He doesn’t bother to question _why_ Crowley would offer such a thing. He knows. Deep down, he knows Crowley is a sensitive soul full of kindness and love. He’ll never bring it to light; not when he knows the demon has a reputation to uphold.

“Hell won’t care. Maybe I’ll convince a few people Satan cured them; start a cult or something in response. I’m sure he’d enjoy that.” 

Despite the severity of the situation, despite how utterly blasphemous Crowley’s words are, Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. It’s a bit crazed and exhausted and empty, but he feels better when he settles. 

“Oh, my darling. I don’t know how I’ve gotten by without you.” 

“Well now you won’t have to.” 

They hold each other for a long while, taking a moment to simply exist outside the chaos of the world falling apart around them before finally walking back to the village to put their plan into action. 

They work tirelessly for days at a time. Often side by side, the demon and angel wade through the panic and muck and filth to find those they can help. Even with his ability to do blessings, Crowley can only do so much, and so he heals those who are in the very beginning stages; the ones who have the best chance of survival. Aziraphale sits with those too far gone; comforts them and holds them as their body grows weaker and weaker. Their eyes meet on more than one occasion, though neither comment on the tears that stray down the other’s cheeks. 

After a particularly grueling several days of nonstop work, eventually Crowley has to admit defeat. He’s exhausted, resources depleted, and when he stands to stubbornly assist someone else, he collapses. Aziraphale catches him, and with a sigh helps him back to his own nearby hut. He deposits the demon on his bedroll, noticing Crowley is already half asleep the moment his head hits the makeshift pillow. 

The angel busies himself with miracling up a pitcher and basin so he can clean the sweat and dirt from Crowley’s brow. It would admittedly be much easier to simply miracle the demon clean, but there’s a certain intimacy in this type of caretaking that Aziraphale wants to experience. It’s an excuse to touch Crowley, though he knows he doesn’t need one. He dips a rag in the hot water, wrings it out, then gently dabs it across the demon's forehead. Sleepily, Crowley hums in contentment and snuggles a little closer to where Aziraphale is seated at the edge of the bed.

Aziraphale uses the rag to brush some of Crowley’s hair out of his eyes, sighing as he watches the demon rest. Even when exhausted and filthy, he’s still so beautiful, and Aziraphale thinks perhaps a quick nap might do him wonders as well. He hasn’t slept since the last time he and Crowley dozed off together- it’s a small form of intimacy they share, though Aziraphale frets constantly at both of them being so vulnerable should they be caught off guard. 

But no one has cared enough to check in millenia. Why would they do so now? 

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs sleepily. 

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale replies softly so as not to fully rouse Crowley from where he rests.

“You…know, right?”

“Know what, darling?” Asks Aziraphale distractedly as he wipes the warm rag over Crowley’s hands. 

Crowley groans as he struggles to sit up despite Aziraphale’s protests. “Everything‘s gone to shit, angel. This one has been hard on us both. I dunno. I just want to make sure that you...well, you know… _know.”_

Understanding dawns. Overcome, Aziraphale drops the rag into the basin and reaches over to take Crowley’s hand. He’s sitting up more now; or rather, he’s half-sitting, half-draped against Aziraphale, relying on the angel to keep him upright for this moment he’s decided needs to happen now. Not that Aziraphale minds. It’s been a very trying few days - it’s been a trying few years - and though they do not speak the words, to have the buried truth of their shared feelings expressed, even in such a roundabout way - restores Aziraphale’s soul in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. 

He squeezes Crowley’s hand. Crowley squeezes back in response. “Yes my darling. I know. And I hope you _know_ as well.” 

Beside him, Crowley sighs, and it’s the first time a smile has graced the demon’s face in an age. It’s tiny, a barely-there curl of one side of his mouth, but it exists for a fleeting moment, and to Aziraphale, it’s like stepping into the warmth of the sun after being buried beneath a never ending winter. “I know. ‘Course I know. C’mon, angel. Let’s rest.” 

They’re still filthy, but it’s the work of a small miracle to fix that. He then curls up on the bed, adjusting until he’s comfortable, then shifting so Crowley can comfortably press up against him. Sleep comes to the demon with ease. Aziraphale lies awake for some time, listening to the chaos that continues on around them. He doesn’t understand why Heaven is allowing this to happen, but it’s a thought to be dwelled upon for another time. When the panic and pain and death slows down - that will be the time to question things. Not now. Not when Crowley, and so many others, need him. 

As he drifts to sleep, Aziraphale realizes he’s never felt further from Heaven; and for the first time ever, he can’t find it within himself to truly care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was a thing. Probably depressing to read, but definitely cathartic to write. 
> 
>   
> Coming up in Chapter Seven: Crowley witnesses firsthand that human life is fragile, human hearts can be cruel, and Hell doesn’t care who gets caught in their crosshairs.


	7. Chapter Seven - Palace of Whitehall, May 19, 1536 (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley witnesses firsthand that human life is fragile, human hearts can be cruel, and Hell doesn’t care who gets caught in their crosshairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: offscreen minor character death, grief, mourning 
> 
> Enjoy?

* * *

_  
_ **Chapter Seven- Palace of Whitehall,**

**May 19th, 1536**

Aziraphale doesn’t bother knocking on the door. Rather, he simply enters, carrying two cups of tea in his hands. He uses his hip to knock the door closed, the heel of his foot pressing it the final couple inches to click shut. A quick miracle locks the door to keep out anyone who may come looking for him. Or her. Not that he expects anyone to come looking. Things are a bit chaotic right now, and he doubts either of them will be missed. 

The room is dark, cold. Once he places the cups of tea on the nightstand, he busies himself by lighting a few candles to illuminate the room in a soft glow before moving to light a fire in the hearth in an attempt to drive away the chill. 

On the bed, Crowley hasn’t acknowledged him. She’s draped facedown, head buried in her arms, shoulders shaking with sobs. She’s dressed in a simple black gown, her preferred color. Though Aziraphale knows this time she isn’t wearing it because she thinks it’s fetching. 

She’s wearing it because she’s in mourning. 

Aziraphale can hear the hitching of her breath as she weeps, hands gripping the bedspread so tightly the fabric has torn. Once he finishes with the fire, he moves to the bed, sitting on the edge next to Crowley to lightly brush his hand over her back, her shoulders. Her hair is a mess from where it’s fallen out of the bun she’d twisted it into, and so he wordlessly begins to pull out pins and finger comb some of the tangles away. Crowley doesn’t react. She simply cries, and Aziraphale’s heart breaks for her. 

“I’m so sorry, my dearest,” Aziraphale whispers after several minutes of silent company, “What can I do?” 

Crowley doesn’t answer. She simply reaches out with one hand and flails it about absently until she manages to come into contact with one of Aziraphale’s. She holds his hand tight, grips it with a vice that alludes to her own serpentine strength, and continues to weep. After some time her breathing becomes ragged- short and gasping, and Aziraphale has no choice but to lift her into a sitting position- her back to his chest- and gently coax her to, “Breathe, dearest. Come, now. Breathe with me- there we are.” 

With great struggle, which speaks to just how human she can be at times, Crowely manages to regain control of her breathing. Once she is no longer gasping, she shifts, curling into Aziraphale as she continues to cry until at length she falls silent, having worn herself out in her grief. 

—

When Crowley comes to, she is warm. The room is bright and she can smell the sweet scent of cooling tea nearby. She shifts, feeling the familiar softness of an angelic presence next to her, and she glances up to see Aziraphale holding her close. With a sniffle, she sits up, the events of the past day catching up to her, causing her breath to catch in her lungs. 

“Shh,” Aziraphale says softly, already moving. He leans away, then returns a moment later with a cup of tea. It’s clearly been rewarmed by the work of a miracle, but Crowley barely tastes it anyway as she drinks it down at Aziraphale’s gentle instruction. Once she finishes, she sits up a little straighter, and looks down at her hands, clenching the teacup, and heaves a heavy sigh. 

“Thanks,” she breathes, the words scratchy against her throat. 

“Of course, my darling,” the angel says, taking her into his arms again, encouraging her to rest against him. Far too exhausted and broken to protest, she sags against him, and feels his arms wrap around her, offering what comfort he can. “I know the answer,” he says at length, “But how are you feeling?” 

Crowley opens her mouth, but then shakes her head silently instead. “They didn’t even have a coffin for her,” she says after a handful of silent minutes. “They had to go  _ find _ something…” 

“How horrible,” Aziraphale gasps, recoiling at the very notion. 

“And she was so…” Crowley begins, weakly, but as she speaks, her sorrow seems to fade, and anger grows in its place. “She was so  _ gracious _ about it all! She consoled  _ us _ , Aziraphale! She teased and laughed, to keep us in good spirits. And that  _ bastard _ king just… fucked off, no doubt busy screwing his newest mistress while his fucking  _ wife _ was  _ beheaded _ like some common criminal!” She lets out a yell of frustration, and throws the cup across the room, watching with little satisfaction as it shatters. “ _ Bastard!”  _

“My darling,” Aziraphale says softly, rubbing Crowley’s back soothingly, “I do agree with you, but let’s keep treasonous comments a bit quieter, please.” 

Crowley growls and pulls away from Aziraphale. Hair flies into her face and she sweeps it away with an angry swat. “He’s not  _ my _ king, angel! I’m not human, so I have no country nor loyalty. Not to them. But  _ Anne- _ ” Crowley stops, sniffles again. Aziraphale produces a handkerchief and leans forward to wipe away the fresh tears in Crowley’s eyes. She lets him, silent as he does so, before taking the handkerchief to blow her nose. “My job was to encourage Anne to pursue him, Aziraphale. And so I did. I didn’t think he’d want to  _ divorce _ Catherine. I thought the affair was just going to cause some strife between the king and his advisors and the church. I didn’t account for him-” she stops suddenly and scoots off the bed to stand up, where she begins to pace. “No… no- that wasn’t- that  _ wasn’t love _ . He didn’t love her, did he, Aziraphale? He  _ coveted _ her.” She laughs bitterly. “Oh,  _ well done _ , me!” 

“I hardly think you can blame yourself for King Henry’s reckless libido,” Aziraphale remarks gently, trying to read Crowley’s ever shifting emotions as the demon tries to process her grief. 

“Can’t I?” She says, turning to give the angel a hard look. “I encouraged them. Anne trusted me. And my meddling got her sent to the fucking chopping block!” Her hands clench the skirt of her dress, twisting it up as she wrings her hands, “If I’d known my meddling was going to lead to  _ this _ , I’d have  _ never _ -” 

Aziraphale stands up. He steps up to Crowley and wraps his arms around her. “I know, my darling. I know you wouldn’t.” 

Crowley sags against him as fresh tears come. She weeps anew, grief making way for anger as she trembles in the angel’s arms. After a moment she pushes away, and looks at Aziraphale with undisguised rage. “I wouldn’t… but  _ Hell  _ would.” Gathering her skirts, she moves toward the door. Aziraphale follows. 

“Darling, where-” 

“I’m going to Hell,” she says hotly, as she makes her way to the door. “I want to know if they  _ knew _ . If the plan was to get Anne killed. I want to know-” 

Her hand touches the doorknob, and is instantly covered by Aziraphale’s. “Crowley-” 

“Don’t  _ Crowley _ me!” Crowley hisses, jerking away from the angel, who steps in front of the door to block the way. “Anne Boleyn was my  _ friend _ , Aziraphale! I know it started out as a job, but- but I  _ liked _ her! I loved her!” She stops short at that; laughs a little madly. “When I realized she was in love with him… when I realized he wanted her… I tried to protect her. I tried to stop the whispers and the plots, but… I wasn’t enough... ” She buries her head in her hands for a moment, takes a shuddering breath, then looks up, so pained and broken it brings tears to the angel’s eyes. 

“I told myself not to do this, you know,” she says bitterly, lowering her arms to wrap around herself. “Never again; not after Jesus. What they did to him-” her words trail off, and her eyes look straight through the angel, as if remembering in detail the pain and torture her old friend had endured. “I  _ told myself _ not to… but I did… Everyone I get close to is  _ ripped _ away from me!  _ Because of me!  _ And I just- I just want to know if this was the plan! Did I condemn Anne to die the moment I first spoke to her? I just want to  _ know _ , Aziraphale!” She dissolves into tears once more, clinging to herself as her whole body quakes. 

Carefully, Aziraphale steps closer, and takes Crowley into his arms once more. The demon goes without fuss, clutching the front of the angel’s coat. 

“I’m so fucking  _ sick _ of being Hell’s pawn, angel,” she says, bitterly, “I’m so  _ tired _ .” 

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale coos softly. He’s never seen Crowley like this, and if he’s honest, it frightens him. Crowley has always been the confident one between them. The one comfortable with pushing boundaries and asking questions. But this… Aziraphale doesn’t know how to handle this. Doesn’t know how to console Crowley when he’s long since felt the same about Heaven. He’s felt lost for so long; how is he supposed to comfort Crowely when neither of them know where they stand in their respective roles anymore? 

Azirapahle squeezes Crowley tighter, and tries to think of something to say that might soothe the demon’s heart. He’s an angelic being, after all. He should be able to do this. But nothing he can think to say seems right. Seems good enough. So he just holds Crowley and silently curses Heaven and Hell for putting them in this position. 

“Please don’t go to Hell,” Azirapahle whispers at length, when he can think of nothing else to say. “Even if Hell hadn’t planned for her to die, they won’t feel anything other than glee that it happened. And in any case, this wasn’t you, my dear. This was Henry’s doing. His own greed and lust and wickedness did this to Anne. Not you. Not you, my dear.” 

Crowley murmurs something unintelligible, but doesn’t try to argue further. She stays in Aziraphale’s arms until eventually all tension drains out of her body, and it’s only Aziraphale’s embrace keeping her upright. “There, there, my darling one. Come, let’s sit.” 

He leads Crowley over to a settee and sits down, guiding Crowley onto his lap. She curls against him, her billowing black skirts pooling around them. Her head falls to Aziraphale’s shoulder and she sighs wearily. “You’re right. As usual,” she says simply. “Hell will probably congratulate me on getting her killed. Especially since it’s caused this mess, politically. They’ll love that.” 

“I’m sure they will,” Aziraphale agrees solemnly, “But that’s not important. People have argued about God and politics since the beginning. What matters now is you, my dear. You are not to blame for this. Anne was conspired against, and Henry was going to be rid of her no matter what. That isn’t on you.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says with a tone of finality, “It’s not.” 

“If you say so, angel,” Crowley sighs, curling closer to the angel. 

“I do,” he states, “And at any rate. You don’t need to worry about Henry or the church, or any of that. You need to grieve for your friend. However long it takes. Focus on that, on healing from this loss. But don’t add the unnecessary weight of guilt to your shoulders.” 

“Not sure I can do that, angel,” she breathes, “But I’ll try.” 

“That’s all I ask, my dear,” Aziraphale says, before falling silent, and holding Crowley as she tries to piece herself together from where she’d shattered in the courtyard only hours before, in the wake of an unjust execution. Crowley doesn’t seem inclined to move, and so the angel stays put, holding the demon close to him and thinking back over recent events, wondering if he could have done anything more to prevent this outcome. 

Try as he might, he doesn't think any council he might have given to the king would have changed things. 

_ Poor Anne,  _ Aziraphale thinks to himself.  _ Poor Crowley. _

Something then strikes Aziraphale from Crowley’s earlier outburst, and he feels the need to set it to rights. “I’m still here, you know.” 

Crowley shifts. “What?” 

“Earlier,” Aziraphale says softly, “You said everyone you get close to is  _ ripped _ away. But I’m still here, my darling. And I’m not going anywhere.” 

Crowley stiffens at that. Slowly, she pulls away, and slips off Aziraphale’s lap, onto the settee beside him. It’s startling how unpleasantly cold it suddenly is without Crowley’s warmth against him. 

“But that’s just it, angel. We  _ aren’t _ close.” 

A sword through the chest might have hurt less, as the angel stares at Crowley. “What?” 

Crowley sniffles again. “We aren’t close,” she repeats, “Not really. I mean, we obviously  _ know _ ,” she says, reaching out to take the angel’s hand so Azirapahle cannot mistake her meaning. “But, that’s it. We can’t actually be close. Not the way we want to. We have our head offices; we have our rules. We- we’re not-” she pauses and takes a shuddering breath, “I have a certain… image… in my head of what it means to be close to you. And we aren’t there. Not by a long shot. And I don’t begrudge that!” She says quickly, “But we put these rules in place because we thought Heaven and Hell might come knocking, but they  _ haven’t _ , not in  _ centuries _ , and I just… I want  _ more _ , angel, but I also see what getting close to people gets me!” 

A bitter, tearful laugh escapes her, and she covers her mouth with a thin, bejeweled hand. “I helped bury Jesus. I helped bury Anne. Aziraphale, I  _ can’t  _ lose you because of my own selfish desires!” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, “You’ve never said….” 

“Didn’t want to push,” she shrugs, looking away. 

Suddenly resolved, Aziraphale scoots forward and gently takes Crowley’s face in his hands. Tilting her head just so, he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. It’s meant to comfort, and so it does, and Crowley sighs against the softness pressed to her forehead. 

“You’re not selfish,” he whispers, “Your desire to be closer to me is not selfish, my darling. I want the same.” 

A breath escapes Crowley. “You do?” Despite the sorrow that consumes her, Aziraphale sees a small flash of something he might be tempted to identify as hope. 

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale breathes, “My darling…  _ this _ isn’t selfish. What we have isn’t selfish. It’s right. It has to be.” 

Crowley’s hand lifts to rest on Aziraphale’s. She nestles her cheek against his warm palm. “ _ Angel.”  _

“Not now,” the angel says thoughtfully after a moment, “But perhaps in due time, we could revisit our rules.” 

He smiles as Crowley’s eyes shoot wide open, and stare at him with surprise. “You need time right now. Time to grieve and heal. And I won’t let you rush that process,” he says firmly, “But perhaps, when you’re ready… we can… revise our rules. They are rather antiquated, at this point. Perhaps they could do with an update.” 

For the first time in weeks, Crowley smiles, even if it is fleeting. “You mean it?” 

“We shouldn’t let our guard down,” the angel clarifies, “I won’t risk harm to you, and I certainly don’t want to make your fear of losing me worse. I fear what would happen to you if Hell knew as well, make no mistake. But… small allowances, perhaps… until such a time as we feel well and truly safe.” 

“Do you think such a time will ever come?” 

“One can only hope, my dear.” 

He hesitates a moment, then leans forward and presses another kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “Come now. That is a discussion for the future. I won’t have you doing anything else emotionally taxing after what you’ve had to endure. Let’s get you to bed. You need to rest. It’s been a hard few days, and I’m sure you’d like to sleep.” 

“Might sleep for a while, actually,” Crowley sighs as she stands at Aziraphale’s request. She runs a hand over her face wearily. “Would you mind?” 

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says simply. “Do what you need to do, my darling. I’m not going anywhere. That’s a promise.” 

Crowley hesitates a moment, then surges forward to hug Aziraphale tightly. She doesn’t cry- she’s too exhausted by far- but she clings to him with what little strength she can muster. “Thank you, Aziraphale.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale assures her. “You rest now. And when you wake, I promise, things will be better.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify- the person Crowley is mourning is Queen Anne Boleyn, second wife of King Henry VIII, who was executed on May 19 at the Tower of London. 
> 
> I love the idea of Crowley and Anne becoming friends. I feel like they would have gotten along, and I wanted to portray another instance of Crowley meeting a human who has a major impact on her. (Don’t worry, Aziraphale’s time will come....)
> 
> I also love playing with the idea that things Crowley does always come back to bite him in the ass. The mobile phone network going down, the M25- both his doing, both screw him over.  
> So Crowley trying to influence Anne and Henry to have an affair turns into this massive thing that, well. You know. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Eight: After Crowley wakes up, Aziraphale suggests they get away from life at court. But first he needs to have one last meeting with the king...


	8. Chapter Eight - England, 1536 (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Crowley wakes up, Aziraphale suggests they get away from life at court. But first he needs to have one last meeting with the king...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the views, kudos, and comments! 
> 
> Chapter warnings: grief/mourning

* * *

**Chapter Eight - June 1536 (Part II)**

  
He did _what?!”_

Aziraphale swallows, hands wringing together nervously in the face of Crowley’s wrath. He does not fear for himself; rather he worries Crowley might do something stupid, so consumed in her grief and anger over the fate of her friend, Queen Anne. 

“He married Lady Seymour last night,” Aziraphale repeats softly, “In a private ceremony. I only know because I am close with the palace cooks and they told me they were preparing a wedding meal.” 

Crowley’s hands ball into fists. “That _bastard,”_ she snarls. “He really has the balls to just tie another woman to him before Anne is even cold in her grave!”

“I’m quite certain the king believes- with great reason- that he can simply do as he pleases. Those who dare question him often find themselves no longer in his good graces.” 

Crowley lets out a growl of frustration, then turns and stomps to her vanity, sitting with a huff as she grabs a comb and roughly tries to untangle her tangled hair. Tutting, Aziraphale moves to her and gently pulls the comb from her grip. “Allow me, darling,” he soothes, beginning to run the comb through with much more care than Crowley had given. Under the angel’s touch, Crowley seems to sag a little, the tension of her shoulders releasing ever so slightly. 

“Anne deserved better,” she mutters as Aziraphale works out the tangles with gentle coaxing, following each stroke with a brush of his fingers through the locks. “She _deserves_ better. She didn’t even get a proper burial. I know it’s just a body-“ Crowley amends quickly, “But humans only get the one. I just wish I could have done more to ensure she was buried somewhere nicer. She deserved that, at the _very_ least.” 

“I think you did everything you could, given the circumstances,” Aziraphale says softly, “You were there for her, through it all. It might not seem like much, but to have a friend in trying times…” Aziraphale reflects back to all the times across the centuries Crowley has been there for him, “It can do a lot of g-“ he stops, knowing the demon’s opinion of that word, “A lot.” 

The demon smiles, fleetingly. “Nice save.” She meets the angel’s eyes, then lowers them back to study her own tired appearance. Leaning forward, she rests her chin in her palm. “So he married his new favorite less than two weeks after murdering the old one,” she muses bitterly, “The one he nearly tore the country apart to be able to wed. I pity Lady Seymour for getting stuck with such a man.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale questions. 

“Sure,” says Crowley. “She’s just married a man who beheaded his wife for- amongst a great many other stupid things- not giving him a male heir,” she says the last part in a mocking tone, nose wrinkling in disgust. “For her sake she better hope it’s in the Divine Plan to give him a son. Else he’ll have made her queen for nothing.” 

“Actually,” says the angel, “She isn’t queen yet. I think they’re trying to put some space in between the execution and the coronation. For appearances sake.” 

“Hmph,” scoffs Crowley, watching as Aziraphale twists her hair up in an elegant, braided updo. When he finishes, Crowley catches the angel’s hand and cradles it against her cheek. “Surprised the bastard didn’t throw a celebration of some sort.” 

“I think even King Henry knows that would be in extremely poor taste, my dear.” 

Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale stares at her reflection in the mirror. Even though she’s slept for twelve straight days, she looks exhausted. It shouldn’t be possible for a demon to seem so tired, but the bags under Crowley’s eyes, and the deep set of her frown confirm otherwise. 

“Why don’t you get out of here?” Aziraphale suggests after a moment, “Being here is going to do nothing but bring you pain. Perhaps a change of scenery might help ease your heart.”

“Trying to get rid of me, angel?” She’s teasing; he knows she is. But her words lack that lightness that so often comes with her teasing words. Aziraphale kisses her knuckles. Soft lips graze over a rough patch of scales, causing Crowley to gasp softly. Aziraphale finds he loves those small patches of skin, though he knows they only appear when Crowley is distressed. But even still, he finds them lovely, the sharp black glimmering with a hint of red just underneath. They’re beautiful, just as everything about Crowley is beautiful. He replaces lips with fingers, lightly brushing over the scales, watching as Crowley’s fingers flex at the feather-light touch. 

“I’m trying to protect you,” Aziraphale replies, “And I’ll be right behind you. Why don’t you go to the country; rest a bit more. Get away from court. I’ll tie up loose ends here and meet you there in a few days. We’ll laze about; until our next missions come.” 

Crowley studies Aziraphale through the mirror. “I doubt I’ll be much fun.” 

This time Aziraphale shrugs. “I don’t need you to entertain me, darling. I can handle myself. Right now I’m focused on your well-being. This was a hard one; I think time away from it all might do us both some good. Heaven knows I’ve grown weary of all this courtly nonsense,” he pauses to glance at his clothing, “Even if I _do_ quite enjoy the fashions.” 

“You do look rather smart,” Crowley agrees. Aziraphale blushes. 

“And you are always fetching,” he says, then steps back from Crowley. “It’s decided. You’re going to pack up and go to the country. I’ll handle affairs here and meet you there.”

Crowley turns and looks up at the angel. “Are you doing this so I won’t be tempted to do something drastic, like kill the king? Not that _I’d_ do it,” she amends, “Dirty work, that. But the point remains.” 

Aziraphale huffs and steps forward, kneeling back down in front of Crowley. “I’m doing this because,” he pauses. Frowns. “Well. _You know.”_

Crowley nods. “I do.” 

“And I dislike seeing you in such a state,” the angel continues. “I wasn’t there, last time. I was so caught up in my own kind of grief, I completely neglected to think of you. Though, I didn’t realize you two had been friends. Had I known, I might have been able to stay, for your sake. But I refuse to make the same mistake twice.” 

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, resting a hand on his cheek, “I don’t begrudge you leaving the Crucifixion. You don’t need to… _repent,”_ she smacks her lips together at that, as if the word left a literal bad taste in her mouth. 

“I know,” Aziraphale pouts, “But I _want_ to do this. If it’s what you want, of course.”

Crowley smiles, fleetingly. “I want it.” 

Aziraphale leans up and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Then I’ll see you again in a few days.”

—

“I am sorry to see you go,'' King Henry says as he takes a sip of a very old and very expensive wine brought out of Aziraphale’s stores; a gift presented to soften the blow of his sudden departure.

“I am sorry to leave,” Aziraphale says as he takes a sip from his own cup. “Especially in the midst of so much change. Though I believe it is for the good of all,” he says with a kind smile. It’s the kind of soft expression that has eased many before; disarming, gentle, unassuming. Dangerous.

“Yes,” the king agrees, “I hope your aunt will fare well under your care.”

“I am certain knowing her woes have touched the heart of the king will improve her spirits greatly,” Aziraphale says before waving a hand. “But enough about my present trouble. Let me offer you my sincerest congratulations to you and your new wife.” 

Henry visibly bristles at the comment. _Good,_ Aziraphale thinks to himself as he keeps a pleasant expression on his face. 

“News travels fast, it seems,'' he says with a frown. 

“Indeed. And especially when it is news worthy of celebration,” Aziraphale says diplomatically. “Though, it is this news that spurred my urgency in meeting with you before my departure. If you’ll allow me, Your Majesty, I would offer you one last bit of advice before I take my leave to the country.” 

“Of course,” says Henry, gesturing for Aziraphale to go ahead. “I know we do not speak as often as I would like, but your counsel has always been happily received. I trust you more than many I surround myself with.” Aziraphale can’t sense things like this the way Crowley can, but it doesn’t take supernatural senses to know that the king reeks of mistrust, fear, and anger. 

“I am so pleased to hear it,” he says brightly. He studies the king for a moment, meeting his eyes before speaking in a softer tone: “My advice is as such: it may be wise to cease any plans for a coronation for your lovely bride. While I know the people will come to love her in time, there is much discord right now. Despite Anne's crimes-“ Here he sees Henry scowl deeply- “The people were fond of her, and will need some time to adjust.” 

He takes a sip of wine, then adds, almost as if an afterthought, “There is also the question of whether or not your new bride will be able to bear you a son. It would be a pity to go through all this trouble for a third time only to find out that she is unable to give you that which you have been _so_ unfortunate as to yet receive. If she is not queen, it may be best that the people have not yet come to love her as their queen. Too many such disturbances can’t be good for their devotion to you.” 

Said by anyone else, those words would have been a death sentence. As it is, Aziraphale has spent many decades practicing and perfecting the art of temptation when taking his turn to assist Crowley. The idea had come to the demon after the worst of the Black Death had passed, when Crowley had collapsed from trying to heal as many people as possible. Upon further discussion, they had agreed that- in some instances- perhaps one might be able to satisfy the others needs by performing miracles their side would not necessarily approve of. It is a skill Aziraphale has developed over time, and it takes little effort to tempt Henry into heeding his words. The king nods thoughtfully. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says a bit distractedly. He takes another sip of wine. “I confess, I have been brash in my decisions in the past. Perhaps it might behoove me to err on the side of caution this time around. Your words, as always, are most appreciated, Lord Fell.” 

Aziraphale bows his head. “It is no trouble at all, Your Majesty,” he says, feeling rather smug about his success as he stands, bows, and takes his leave.

If Heaven asks- though Aziraphale has the distinct suspicion they _won’t-_ he’ll say he is merely protecting Lady Jane from the ever-wavering wiles of a man prone to wickedness. And in some ways, that is true. He pities the poor girl; knows even if she didn’t want the king, she would have little choice. He doesn’t hate her; he doesn’t think he _could_. But, that doesn't mean he can’t get payback for his heartbroken demon. It won’t bring Anne back; it won’t ease the ache in Crowley’s heart. 

But he can’t sit idly by and do nothing. 

—

Crowley leaves the address for the cottage, as well as an extra key. The two days in the castle and the two day ride to the country are miserable for Aziraphale, but he holds the key close, clutched to his heart, and thinks of how he will soon be reunited with Crowley. He hopes sending her away without him wasn’t a mistake, but he’d thought it best to get her out of the castle. 

Finally, after a horribly unpleasant and bumpy carriage ride, Aziraphale arrives at the cottage. He pays the driver handsomely, blesses him, and then takes his bags. He walks up the dirt path to the house- a lovely stone cottage the color of storm clouds, light grey with splotches of white- and to the forest green door. He turns the key, feels the demonic fluttering of a ward recognizing him and receding to let him enter, and he steps inside. 

It’s modest, but still well furnished. The windows are all open, and small pots of lavender plants adorn each one, giving the air a sweet smell to cover up the musk of dust and unuse. The angel places his bags down just past the entrance in favor of searching for Crowley, and takes a couple more steps before calling out softly, “Hello?” 

There’s no answer, and so Aziraphale continues down the hallway until he reaches the den. It’s small but cozy- a few arm chairs, a couch, and a roaring fire crackling in the ornate stone hearth. Tapestries and portraits of the owner and his family adorn the walls and shelves, as well as a modest selection of books on a shelf behind the pianoforte that sits in the corner. A rug the color of wine, gold, and emerald sits in the middle of the room with a black stone table placed over it. On the table is a pair of tinted glasses, haphazardly thrown on top of it. A bottle of wine, overturned but empty sits beside them. A black dress lies in crumpled ruin on the floor. And in a coiled up lumpy mess of blankets and hair, is Crowley, asleep. 

Heart all at once swelling with joy and bursting with pain for his demon, Aziraphale approaches Crowley, kneeling down beside the couch where she’s curled up, and lightly sweeps a hand across her forehead, brushing some unruly strands of hair out of her face. The touch must tickle, because Crowley’s nose scrunches, causing adorable little wrinkles to form on her forehead before they smooth out as her expression relaxes, and two golden eyes blink open, at first dazed, then confused, then relieved. 

_“Angel,”_ she breathes, moving as fast as a viper to sit up, throw the blankets off her, and wrap her arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Her face buries into the crook of his neck, and she squeezes, pressing him close. Aziraphale shifts, sitting up on his knees, and wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist. She’s always been trim; but she feels particularly small now, now that all the mess of fabric and corsetry have been removed. Underneath the thin fabric of the nightgown she’s wearing, Aziraphale can feel a patch of scales trailing up her spine. 

Aziraphale breathes her in. How can he miss her so desperately after just a few days, when it was once normal to go centuries without seeing one another? 

“Oh, my darling one,” Aziraphale sighs as he moves, his angelic strength allowing him to maneuver Crowley so that he can sit where her head had been as she slept. He now sits in that spot, with Crowley and her ridiculous number of blankets curled up in his lap. Content as a kitten, Crowley just snuggles in tighter, and doesn’t make any effort to speak. 

It’s alright. She doesn’t need to. 

“Everything is sorted,” he tells her as he alternates between stroking her hair and her back. His other hand slips under the mess of blankets and finds her knees, bare from where her gown has been rucked up from their movements, and idly brushes his thumb over the closer one. Scales, again. “Your resignation has been accepted, as was mine.” 

Crowley responds by squeezing him tighter. _“Thank you,”_ she whispers, so soft it’s a miracle the angel hears the words. But the brush of her lips against his skin is unmistakable, and he slides his arms around her to hug her close. 

“Of course, my dearest girl,” he says sweetly, earning him a contented hum. 

After a few minutes of silence, Crowley sits up. If it weren’t for the fact that she looks the way she does because of grief, Aziraphale might remark that she looks adorably disheveled. As it stands, he simply gives her a soft smile, and allows himself to radiate some angelic peace around them, which _should_ sting a demon such as Crowley, but instead seems to have its desired effect, and she sighs as some of the despair drains from her like shadows being chased away by a ray of sunshine. 

“Do you want a tour?” She asks after a few moments. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Later,” he says, “I just want to hold you for now.” 

Clearly that’s the right answer, because Crowley sags against him before the words are even fully out of the angel’s mouth. He laughs and sputters when some of Crowley’s hair tickles his lips, and he raises a hand to smooth down the untamed curls. Crowley curls into him, holding him tight as she settles in his lap once more. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says after a while, “Don’t think I want be alone for a bit.” 

“Well, I will be here for as long as you wish, my dear,” Aziraphale assures her, fingers trailing abstract patterns over her arm, her hip. “For as long as you need me.” 

“Always need you,” is the mumbled reply. 

“Then right here is where I’ll stay,” he promises, snapping his fingers to move his luggage to some other room in the house. He’ll find them later. For now he holds Crowley to him, focuses on the sound of her breathing as she dozes against him, and lets the comfort and warmth and quiet surround him, until he’s gently lulled into a peaceful sleep. 

—

When he wakes, Aziraphale is dismayed upon the realization that Crowley is no longer in his lap. He groans, hating the foggy feeling that always follows him out of sleep. With a grunt, he stands, relighting the fire with a snap of his fingers. He looks around, then sees a dim, flickering light toward the back of the cottage. He follows it, letting the light guide him toward the back room- a bedroom. 

The distinct sound of water sloshing can be heard in the room attached, and Aziraphale clears his throat before calling out softly, “Crowley?” 

“In here, angel.” 

He hesitates. “Are you… decent?” 

“Never,” comes the dry reply, “And on top of that I’m _naked._ So you may as well come in.” 

They’ve seen each other naked, once, at a bathhouse a millenia or so ago. Aziraphale knows these bodies of theirs aren’t the end all: they existed without bodies longer than they’ve had them. But there’s something about living amongst humans for so long that makes one put an undue amount of emphasis on the human form- and all the shame and glory that comes with it. 

Though, nothing about Crowley’s form could be considered shameful. And Aziraphale is quite content with his own corporeal form. 

And there’s no one here to see them, anyway. 

“Knock knock,” Aziraphale says as he enters the room. It’s dark out, because they slept for quite some time, and only the light of the moon seeping in through the open window and several candles illuminate the clawfoot bathtub. Crowley is reclined back, hair piled in a mess on top of her head, lazily running a rag over one arm. 

She’s stunning. 

She turns her head slightly to look at Aziraphale, golden eyes shining in the dim light. “Was trying to freshen up, now you’re here,” she says, voice just as soft as it was when he first arrived. She’s barely spoken above a whisper. “Got a little cozy and lost track of time. Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” Aziraphale says as he walks further into the room, pushing back his sleeves as he approaches, entranced. He’s aware that, were he sporting an Effort, he’d be terribly aroused at the moment. And if he’s honest with himself, he is aroused without it. Perhaps not quite so intensely, but he feels the same sort of awe and desire for Crowley that he always feels, though perhaps a touch stronger as he watches her half-silhouetted form bathe.

Stepping up to the tub, Aziraphale reaches down and catches the cloth in Crowley’s hand, tugging it gently from her grasp. She looks up at him, eyes wide and searching. She’s not trying to tempt or seduce- tempting and seductive as she innately is. She’s simply washing, but it’s a lovely sight nonetheless. 

“May I?” He asks. She nods and sits up, leaning forward. Aziraphale perches on the edge of the tub and begins to run the rag over her back, taking a moment to dip it into the water below, fingers brushing her tailbone before he lifts his hand once more to press the rag to the nape of her neck, squeezing to let the water run down in beads against tanned, freckled, scaled skin. Crowley sighs and pulls her knees up, resting her chin on them. 

Aziraphale continues to bathe her in silence, undoing her hair and brushing it out with his fingers before he miracles a pitcher full of hot water. Trailing one hand to her cheek, he lightly taps until she lifts her head, then he slides one finger under her chin to tip her head back, pouring the water over her hair. 

_“Mmm,”_ Crowley sighs. 

The angel smiles as he grabs the soap at the foot of the tub and begins to wash Crowley’s hair, gently massaging her scalp and trailing sudsy hands down the long strands of her hair. 

“I think,” Aziraphale says softly, “You tempted me in here so I would do all the work for you.” 

He feels Crowley’s shoulders shift as she exhales a soft laugh. “You caught me.” 

“Well, this is one temptation I’ll happily fall prey to anytime you wish, my dear.” 

Crowley sighs as Aziraphale tips her head back once more and rinses her hair. “Don’t blame me if I take full advantage of that,” she warns, eyes closed as she seems to grow boneless, so relaxed she’s hardy able to sit up straight. 

“I fully expect you to,” Aziraphale replies, handing her back the cloth to finish washing herself elsewhere while he fetches a towel. He returns as she finishes, and she stands. Aziraphale does not react; this isn’t that sort of moment, and as beautiful and tantalizing as she is, this isn’t the time for such thoughts. Not that he could act in such thoughts, anyway. Rules be damned; she’s in no state for Aziraphale to wax poetic about how she stirs something within him. 

He wraps her in the towel, more a hug than anything, and Crowley sags against him, getting his clothing soaked. “Rude,” he teases, steering clear of words like _fiend_ and _wicked_ and _demon_. He worries such words, even if spoken affectionately, will upset her- considering why they’re here in the first place. Considering the blame she still wears like a shroud. 

He dries her off and leaves her to dress so that he, too, can change. They meet in the den, in front of the hearth. Crowley has a bottle of wine and a comb while Aziraphale has a book of poetry. They settle in front of the fire, where Aziraphale towel dries Crowley’s hair, then combs it, then braids it. As he works, Crowley reads aloud, until finally she pauses halfway through a poem and asks, “Angel?” 

Aziraphale continues to braid with deft fingers. “Yes, my dear?” 

“Why did you send me ahead of you?” 

To his credit, the angel doesn’t stop braiding. But he does swallow thickly. “To tie things up for us, of course.” 

“Yes, but I could have resigned myself,” Crowley remarks, “And I could have waited. I agreed to leave early because you seemed so earnest in wanting to help- and it was smart, getting away… but I’ve been here alone for a couple days, with... not a lot to do… and so I just keep thinking and I have a suspicion you _wanted_ me to go because you didn’t want me to see something.” 

“I wanted you to get away from a place that was causing you pain,” Aziraphale says primly. 

Suddenly the braid in his hands is gone, and he’s face to face with Crowley. “Now I’ll have to redo that one,” he pouts, reaching out to touch her hair. Her hand comes up to catch his, and she narrows her eyes, studying him closely, intently. She leans closer, and were it any other moment Aziraphale might think she intends to kiss him, but she just looks at him, eyes searching for something telling. 

“What happened that you don’t want me to know about?” 

Aziraphale squeezes her hand. “I can assure you, darling, that nothing happened. I ensured our resignations were accepted with little fuss, packed up a few things I thought you might want, met with Henry, and left.” 

Her eyes narrow, as if she’s spotted something in his words. “You met with Henry.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “Fine. I told Henry I have a sick aunt in need of my immediate care.” 

Her head tilts. “That’s not true.” 

“Not in so many words, no,” Aziraphale agrees, “There is no aunt, but there is someone who was in need of me, and what I call that person is really of little consequence.” 

“Just say you lied, angel,” Crowley remarks simply. 

“I did not _lie,”_ Aziraphale says primly. “Angel’s don’t lie. I told a version of the truth. The specifics are a bit muddled, but it’s not as if he actually cares.”

Crowley’s lips twitch in the smallest of smiles. “You lied for me. You sap.” She then resumes her hard stare, “But you did something else. I can always tell when you’ve done my job for me. The air around you is different.”

“If you’re saying I _smell bad_ -“ 

“I’m not,” she says simply, “I’m saying that I’ve been around you enough that I can sense a slight distinction after you’ve done one of my jobs for me. So come on. What naughty thing do you not want me to know about?”

“Must you say it like that?” Aziraphale says with a huff, rolling his eyes. 

“Yes. Now. What did you do? It’s gotta be go- ba- _terrific_ if you’re so reluctant to tell me.” 

“Oh, all right,” Aziraphale says with a long-suffering sigh. “I didn’t want to say anything yet because I worried it might be too soon to bring up such things, but since you _insist-“_

Aziraphale tells her of his conversation with the king. The demon’s jaw _drops_. 

“You _tempted the king?!”_ She gasps, both hands flying to cover her mouth is shock and delight. 

“I did no such thing,” Aziraphale snips, “I merely _convinced_ Henry that it might not be in his best interests to crown his newest bride queen until she can prove she can bare him a son, since he’s had such a trial in that area.” 

Crowley stares, stunned. “I’m surprised you didn’t… I don’t know.. _bless_ him to somehow make a boy…” 

Aziraphale makes a face. “And give that wretched man what he wants? Absolutely not. I may be willing to mess with the king, but I’m not going to muck about with Ineffability. If the Almighty wills it, and She gives him a son, well. That’s the end of that.” 

“But if she doesn’t…” Crowley warns. 

“If she doesn’t, well. Lady Seymour isn’t the Queen. Not officially. And under his new church he can divorce, so he’ll simply divorce or annul the marriage and move on. It’s not fair to her, but at the very least-“ 

“She’ll have her life,” Crowley breathes, understanding. 

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale nods, “But I also thought it might be petty enough for you to appreciate. Make Henry question himself, doubt himself and his actions. Be unsure of what exactly it is he’s doing. Make him worry and fret about his choices.” 

“Probably won’t stop him,” Crowley remarks bitterly, but then looks up to Aziraphale, eyes wide and soft. “I can’t believe you did that…” Her hand squeezes Aziraphale’s, and for the first time in weeks, the angel sees a smile on her lips that lingers for more than a fleeting moment. “Why did you do that?” 

“You know why,” Aziraphale says simply. Because it really is that simple. 

Dipping her head, Crowley places a kiss on the angel’s knuckles. “I do,” she whispers. After a lingering moment, she turns back around. “Can you fix the braid?” 

“I’ll do whatever you wish, my dear,” Aziraphale says as he begins braiding again. His actions at court, and the intimate act of braiding her hair after helping her bathe feel like a pledge of loyalty, of fealty, to Crowley. That somehow he’s made a claim- that Crowley is the one being who, for Aziraphale, comes before all others. 

As his fingers brush over her back, causing the demon to shiver, he finds that thought more than acceptable. They have no king or country, and their head offices feel little more than a distant threat. The only thing they really have, is each other. 

And if Aziraphale’s honest, that’s all they need. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the scene at the cottage is one of my absolute favorites of this whole series- and it wasn’t even added in until a few days ago! I was editing and thought the chapter was way too short and unsatisfying, so I just... started writing and this was what happened and I love it so much. Smut is great (and we’ll get there) but there is something so pleasing about writing/reading non-sexual intimacy. Just... them caring for each other and loving each other through simple, domestic acts and conversations... sign me the fuck up. 
> 
> And now, a history lesson: 
> 
> So, first of all- Jane Seymour was never crowned queen, which I thought was really odd, especially since Henry (from what we can tell) probably ‘loved’ Jane the most of any of his wives. There is no one answer for why she wasn’t made queen, but some speculate it was because of the most recent scandal with Anne, and the fact that Henry still didn’t have a male heir, which, if she failed to provide, he could divorce/annul the marriage and move on. 
> 
> Since that’s the actual history of it, I decided to use that grey area of “why wasn’t she crowned queen” and have that be a way for Aziraphale to be the bastard we all love, and meddle a bit on Crowley’s behalf. Now, I am admittedly a little worried it might come off a bit as “blaming/punishing Jane”, and I want to clarify that I’m not trying to blame Jane for anything. I don’t know what her relationship with Anne was like (there are some rumors of hostility, but idk) but regardless, I lay the entire blame of everything at Henry’s feet. Besides, he was the king. I expect if he wanted you as his mistress, you couldn’t exactly say no. 
> 
> So anyway that’s the rationale behind Aziraphale’s little demonic miracle. Totally based on what happened in history, though Aziraphale doesn’t have that foresight. He just thinks he’s sorta protecting Jane from a fate similar to Anne’s while fucking with Henry. 
> 
> The sad irony is, Jane DOES give Henry a son, but she also dies two weeks later from complications. Which I find interesting in the context of this story, because just how all the ‘bad’ things Crowley does come back to bite him in the ass, so does the ‘bad’ thing Aziraphale does. He tries to screw over the king and simultaneously and in a roundabout way protect Jane, but Henry still manages to get a son, though his wife dies in the process. 
> 
> Anyway. I put way too much thought into this.


	9. Chapter Nine - England, 1601

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley surprises Aziraphale with a gift that leads to a conversation that has been a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

* * *

**  
Chapter Nine- England, 1601**

  
Crowley, will you _slow down?!”_

The demon doesn’t slow down. In fact, he seems to only walk faster, as if he’s been storing up energy for the past two weeks and it’s all spilling forth now. “No time, angel,” he says as they weave through the crowd. “Not _my_ fault you got in late.” 

“Well, I would have been back sooner if I hadn’t _so graciously_ offered to perform _your_ temptation while I was in Edinburgh,” the angel huffs as he struggles to keep up with Crowley’s ridiculous pace. 

“And I owe you for that,” Crowley says, his way of saying _thank you_ without having to say the words aloud. Demon’s aren’t grateful, aren’t appreciative. Or, they aren’t _supposed_ to be. But they aren’t supposed to be lifelong companions to angels either. “But right now we have to _go.”_

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks as he manages to catch up to Crowley. Worry strikes him that perhaps they’ve been spotted; that perhaps Crowley is trying to get them to safety. He reaches out, feeling into the ether around them, but feels nothing, save the familiar and comforting demonic essence of Crowley himself. 

“Nope,” Crowley says as he comes to a standstill. Aziraphale bumps into him, glaring at the demon before he looks up, realizing after a moment where they are. 

They’re at The Globe. The rounded building is distinct amongst its peers, though on this particular evening there is one key difference. It’s _packed_. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, lightly taking the demon’s elbow in his sudden surprise, “What’s going on?” 

“You know that ‘thing’ that so inconveniently came up right before we were set to leave for Edinburgh together?” 

“Yes…” 

Crowley nods toward the crowded theatre. “This was it.” 

Aziraphale stares, mouth ajar as he takes in the scene. William has certainly earned his own esteem; his playhouse is a testament to that alone, but Aziraphale can’t recall a time when it’s ever been this full. 

Crowley pulls a pamphlet from seemingly nowhere, and hands it to the angel. “You lamented that this one wasn’t getting its due recognition. So I…” he pauses. Smirks. “Generated a little… _interest.”_

Aziraphale blinks. “ _Oh…_ Crowley… this is- I-“ he stops, gives Crowley a smile, and nods, silently offering his thanks. After a moment, he gasps, nervous. “Crowley,” he says in a low voice, “Won't this be considered-“ he glances around, a habit centuries in the making, for any occult or ethereal followers, “ _Good?”_ He whispers finally. 

Crowley’s grin is positively wicked. “Nope,” he says as he takes the angel’s arm and leads him to their place. “Turns out there’s another play due to premiere tonight. Something by that Jonson fellow. You know the one. In a tiff with a few other writers. Anyway. _His_ play is opening tonight. Though you wouldn’t know it,” he says, looking at how overcrowded The Globe is. “So I’ll just say I’m cultivating some envy and wrath amongst this group of gents, and Hell will be pleased.” 

Aziraphale is oddly silent, looking around at the large group gathered together to witness the newest work of William Shakespeare. He looks at Crowley, and it’s almost like seeing him for the first time. He’s stunned, really, that Crowley managed to get rid of him in an effort to create such a _lovely_ gesture. The angel is touched, deeply, that even though Crowley is not a fan of the gloom and despair in Shakespeare’s more solemn works, he went through the effort to make this happen. 

For Aziraphale. 

The audience goes quiet as the actors take their place on the stage, but Aziraphale is hard pressed to look away from Crowley. He’s frozen by a sudden revelation, one that he’s long _known_ , but has never let himself fully embrace: 

He is _desperately_ in love with Crowley. 

And based on what the demon just spent two weeks doing, he knows, beyond words laced with double meaning and lingering looks, that Crowley loves him too. 

With a small smile, he turns his attention to the stage, but not before he reaches out and discreetly entwines his fingers with Crowley’s. 

  
—

  
The story is mesmerizing. Somehow, having a full house invigorates the actors, especially Burbage, who delivers a passionate and moving portrayal of the Prince of Denmark. It’s the sort of performance that should leave Aziraphale in so much awe he can do nothing but express to Crowley in great, detailed length, of the magnificence of human emotion and creation. It’s the sort of performance that should leave Aziraphale giddy and full of love for humankind, so much so that it spills out of him with unending remarks of, _“Oh my dear, did you ever see such a thing?!”_

But instead, Aziraphale is quiet as he and Crowley slip through the crowd and make their way to the Crowley is renting. His mind is a whirl of other thoughts, and none of them are on Burbage or William or the tragedy of the poor Prince. His mind is strictly on the demon beside him. The one who is eyeing him with concern and worry. 

“I know it’s a massive downer,” Crowley says at length, “But you usually still find something _positive_ to say, even when everyone on stage ends up dead.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, forcing himself away from those thoughts. “It was wonderful! And of course your contribution is… noted.” He _hates_ how formal and distant that sounds. He hates how distant they are, despite standing right next to each other. 

It’s strange. Aziraphale can travel the world on a whim. He’s lived so long, he’s learned a multitude of languages and skills and watched mankind develop in the most extraordinary of ways. He has the ability to miracle up anything to satisfy any need, and yet through it all, he’s been unable to have the one thing he wants most of all: to be with Crowley. 

He’s tired of this; of this self-imposed prison that he’s trapped them in. He wants out. And he thinks, based on this quite extravagant gift Crowley has given him tonight, that perhaps the demon is trying to convey something similar. They’d put things on hold for a while to allow Crowley some time, but Aziraphale wonders if perhaps Crowley is trying to tell him- without actually _saying it_ \- that he’s ready. 

Maybe they’re finally on the same page. 

Crowley smirks, but there’s a sadness to it. “Noted,” he repeats, pulling Aziraphale out of his thoughts. 

Something in the way he says that word hits Aziraphale sharply, and as a result he stops, catching Crowley’s hand in a show of boldness. 

“Crowley.” 

The demon stops, turns to face Aziraphale. Watches him expectantly. Just as quickly as Aziraphale had felt emboldened, he loses his nerve and releases the demon’s hand. Best not make any bold declarations out in the open. It’s one thing to give into his desires. It’s another to be reckless about it. 

“Let’s get inside,” he says quickly, looking around nervously before walking ahead of Crowley. The demon watches him curiously for a moment, then follows. They reach the inn where Crowley is staying, and silently enter the room. Shutting the door, Crowley leans against it as he snaps his fingers, lighting the hearth and the several candles that litter the room. 

“If you’re upset about the other bloke,” Crowley begins, worry straining the words. 

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale assures him quickly. “No, my darling, I don’t mind that at all! I personally find their feud to be rather petty, so it serves him right,” he sniffs, then gets back to the matter at hand. “It’s just… well…” 

“Spit it out, angel.” 

“Well, it’s just that… I just can’t help wondering if this _means_ something. This is quite the gesture, my dear. I am deeply touched by your…” he pauses, trying to think of a word complimentary enough to convey how he feels but bad enough to be suited for a demon. For all the languages he knows, he comes up empty. He sighs and gives in to what he wants to say. 

“Frankly my dear, it was extremely thoughtful of you.”

Crowley, for all that he’d been so eager to show Aziraphale the fruits of his labor, now tries to play it off in the absence of others around to curb the angel’s enthusiastic praise. “It was nothing, angel.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “And that’s where you’re wrong,” he explains, then makes a face. “Or, well. Maybe _I’m_ wrong.” He stops and wrings his hands nervously. 

“Angel,” Crowley sighs, “Just say what you want to say. I’m a big demon. I can take a few compliments.” 

For a moment the angel hesitates. Just in the manner Crowely agreed to take things at Aziraphale’s pace back in Rome, so now does Aziraphale desire to move at Crowley’s. He doesn’t want to push, to press, to demand. 

But he does need to know. 

“I-I-I suppose,” he stammers, “I’m afraid that I might be reading too much into this display. Or worse yet, too little.” 

“What are you reading?” Asks Crowley as he takes a step forward. 

Aziraphale’s hands continue to twist. “I’m hoping you’ll be a dear and just _tell me_ if there’s more to this than you just making _Hamlet_ popular as a simple surprise for me.” 

Crowley nods and looks down. After a moment he looks back up, and Aziraphale can see his cheeks are flushed. His eyes seem to dart around, gaze landing on just about anything _but_ Aziraphale. Finally, he moves forward, steps hard and determined, and takes Aziraphale’s trembling hands in his own. 

“You’re right,” he says, after a moment. “It’s a thing. And I want you to read into it. Not- not the _play._ Real mood killer, that. But, you can’t help what you like,” he glances sheepishly at Aziraphale, then instantly returns his gaze back to their hands. 

“This was- _is_ a gesture. With a capital _G._ It’s- I want- ngk-“ he stops, takes a moment to sort out the mess that are his words, and then meets Aziraphale’s gaze and tries again. “I’m ready, angel.” 

“Ready,” Aziraphale repeats, breathless; elated. 

“Yeah,” Crowley replies. “You… said you’d give me time, back in 1536. And it’s been time. Lots of it. Too much of it, really. But I’m ready. Have been, for a while, I think. But it just never really worked out. We’d get busy, or too drunk- and as much better as I’d be at this if I were drunk, this isn’t a drunk conversation. Sometimes I’d think the moment would be right, but I’d second guess myself. Or wonder whether you really meant it. So I thought, ‘Big gesture- that’ll do it. Sweep Aziraphale off his feet and tell him I’m ready for whatever it is we’re gonna be next. Then I couldn’t think of a bloody big enough gesture. Then, well. _Hamlet.”_ He ends lamely, with a helpless gesture. 

Aziraphale stands for a long moment, then closes the distance between them. “Oh, Crowley,” he breathes as he cups Crowley’s face in his hands, “As wonderful as this was- I don’t need a grand gesture,” he says, “I just need you.” 

Then he presses his lips to the demon’s, and it’s every bit as incredible as he dared allow himself to dream. 

Crowley gasps into the kiss, but the moment Aziraphale fears he might pull away, Crowley melts into it, flinging his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and kissing him with every ounce of passion- and every lack of finesse- he’s been holding onto for millenia. 

Aziraphale staggers back from the force of Crowley all but throwing himself at the angel, but easily finds his footing and moves his hands to wrap around Crowley’s waist, hugging the demon to him as he deepens the kiss, hungry for more of the taste of Crowley. 

The soft brush of the demon’s lips is divine, or some equivalent that isn’t insulting to Crowley’s nature. The hunger with which he kisses is thrilling- eager passion and inexperience matched only by Aziraphale’s own making it a wondrous mess of a thing. Aziraphale’s lips part against the urgent sweep of Crowley’s forked tongue, earning the demon a moan as he flicks his tongue against the angel’s. Crowley’s hands slide up to grip the back of Aziraphale’s head, fingers digging into white-blond curls as he tilts the angel’s head to allow him to kiss deeper, to press closer, to hold tighter. 

Aziraphale pulls back for a moment, a smile spreading when Crowley follows, and playfully flicks his tongue against Crowley’s bottom lip. It’s all so new and exciting, and he has no idea what’s correct, what’s the etiquette of such a thing, but then Crowley gasps and wraps his lips around the tip of the angel’s tongue, flicking it with his own before releasing it to repeat the gesture with the angel’s bottom lip, sucking it between his own before releasing it to experimentally nip at the same spot. A breath of surprise and desire is pulled from the angel, and Crowley swallows it down as he alternates between this newfound experiment of mixing gentle caresses with tingling bites that never fail to make the angel tremble and press them closer together. 

Finally, Aziraphale leans back, just enough space between them to allow him to speak. “Oh my,” he gasps, eyes wide as he looks at Crowley, who’s panting and trembling and has his eyes squeezed shut, as if to open them means the end of a most pleasant dream. 

“That was-“ Aziraphale breathes, “Was that alright?” 

Crowley’s eyes open then, and a dumbfounded laugh escapes him. “It was terrific,” he says, thumbs brushing the back of the angels’s head, using just a touch of pressure to push him forward until their foreheads touch. “You kissed me,” he says, as if he can’t believe it. As if he’s dreamed of this moment so many times, he’s not certain if this is another such dream. 

“It was a bit rude not to ask you for permission first,” the angel concedes, “But, yes. I did.” 

Crowley tilts his head, and presses his lips to Aziraphale’s- a brief brush of lips, soft and tender, lingering just long enough to stir the desire in Aziraphale’s heart before the demon pulls away, dragging a whine of disappointment with him. “You have my permission,” he whispers, hands moving to cup the angel’s cheeks, then his shoulders, then his back, then arms. It’s as if this kiss has given Crowley the boldness to simply touch Aziraphale everywhere, and he doesn’t know where to start. “Blanket permission, right here. From now on, you can kiss me. As much and as often as you want. I’ll even get a letter notarized, if you like. Tattoo it on my lips: _Aziraphale can kiss these anytime he likes._ ” 

The angel laughs, the breath tickling those very lips begging for more of him. “Your lips are lovely enough without ink on them,” Aziraphale remarks simply, “And I prefer not to have a paper trail. I think a verbal agreement will do just fine.” He pauses a moment, then smiles. “Shall we seal it with a kiss?” 

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. He swoops in, kissing the angel with delight and desperation and devotion. He kisses him hungrily, a man parched that has finally stumbled across an oasis. Crowley drinks his fill of Aziraphale, and the angel devours in equal measure. Each kiss is an apology, a thousand year dream coming true. Each press of lips together is a benediction, a searching for forgiveness for both of them hiding this bright and burning thing between them that has seared their hearts and souls together. 

When at last Crowley’s lips fall away, they’re both weak-kneed and breathless. “Angel,” he breathes, moving one hand to rest on Aziraphale’s cheek, long fingers curling into the soft curls at the back of his head, “Now that you’ve kissed me, I can’t possibly go back to a life where that isn’t a reality.” 

“It was rather nice,” Aziraphale agrees softly, then amends when he realizes what word he used, “Oh! I mean. Um… it was positively _sinful?”_

A soft laugh escapes Crowley. “I’ll allow it -just this once,” he says, too giddy to care about four-letter-words. “This _is_ nice.” 

The angel beams at that, eyes alight with love and affection so overwhelming the look on Crowley’s face suggests that he can feel it. Demons can’t sense love, not the way angels can. They aren’t supposed to feel love. But Aziraphale knows he’d be a fool to miss the devotion shining in the demon’s eyes. He’d be a fool not to feel love in every kiss, in every touch, in every glance. He’d be a fool to think Crowley capable of anything less than loving to the absolute fullest. 

“So is this what you want?” Aziraphale asks as he manages to pull himself away in an effort to think more clearly. “What you’re ready for? What you imagine?” 

“It’s a start,” Crowley says, the words an acknowledgement that there is so much more he desires between them. 

“It’s a fine start,” Aziraphale agrees, “And the rules are so vague, so obsolete… I suppose it’s time to do away with them entirely.”

“Only if you’re comfortable with that,” Crowley says, moving to sit on the bed. Aziraphale can see he’s trembling, though he’s trying to hide it.

“This isn’t just about me,” Aziraphale says, moving to sit beside Crowley, taking his hands and lacing their fingers together, “We both need to be in agreement.”

“And I agree,” Crowley remarks, “I agreed to the rules when you presented them because I wanted you to feel comfortable going behind Heaven’s back to be with me. Then we agreed to wait while I dealt with my problem-“ 

“You can say you were grieving, darling.” 

Crowley ignores him, “And now, we need to be in agreement about whether our rules are gone flying out the window, or if they’re merely amended to allow certain physical affections. I don’t care. I’ll take what I can get.” 

Aziraphale frowns at that. “I don’t want you to feel like a dog begging for scraps of my affection,” he says with great distaste. “That’s not fair to you, and it’s cruel of me, if that is how I’ve made you feel.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs, longsuffering, “You _know_ how I feel. Everything else is irrelevant to me. So long as you're comfortable and at ease, I’m golden.” 

The angel considers Crowley’s words. Finally after a few minutes of contemplation, he speaks. “I confess, my fear of us being found out is certainly bound to wear thin after so long. But I worry about you, my darling. I suppose I can’t help it.”

“You’re right to worry,” Crowley says, “But I also think perhaps you’re sabotaging yourself out of happiness because you think you don’t deserve it. Because you think that’s what _they_ think, and I know you’ll fuss at me for being blasphemous, but _who cares_ what they think?” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it shut. “Just to spite you, I won’t fuss.” 

Crowley laughs. “Why don’t we toss the rules out the window, and just… do what feels right? Move at our own pace, even if it’s agonizingly slow. Try doing this on _our_ terms, not on the terms of people who aren’t even aware there are terms to be had?” 

Aziraphale looks away, thoughtful and considering. Absently, he strokes Crowley’s knuckles, feeling where a few scales have flared up. Crowley grunts. “Sorry,” he murmurs, trying to remove his hand from Aziraphale’s grip. The angel resists, lifting Crowley’s hand to his lips, kissing the scaled knuckles before loosening his grip. 

Their hands stay linked. Aziraphale presses another kiss to his knuckles, then lowers their hands. 

“It’s silly,” he admits at length, “How tightly gripped I feel by them. I haven’t had any direct contact in centuries, and yet I still feel this paralyzing fear; this _need_ to be what they expect of me.”

“You don’t have to prove yourself to them,” Crowley whispers, “And you _wouldn’t have to,_ if they knew you as I do.” 

Plump fingers squeeze long, thin ones. “Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes, surprised to find himself blinking back tears, “That means more to me than you know.” 

Their eyes meet, and they fall into each other, one kiss becoming several, until they’re dizzy and delirious with how drunk they are on the taste of one another. Finally, Aziraphale sits back, breathless. Once he manages to slow down the racing heartbeat that seems to pound in his ears and make his very veins thrum with energy, he speaks again, “I’m still so afraid to put a name to this,” he whispers, “I’m afraid of what might happen should we be found. If there’s no words spoken, we can at least pretend you… tempted me, or something. I’ll be heavily reprimanded, of course, but you’ll be safe. I can’t even pretend to fathom what they might do to you if they learned you-“ he breaks off, the thought too horrifying to even speak of, hypothetically. 

Crowley catches the angel’s chin in his hands. “Look at me, Aziraphale.” 

Slowly, the angel obeys. 

“Then we don’t say it,” he agrees, “Aziraphale, I’m not going to fuss about _how_ we are together; so long as we _are._ If it makes you feel better, if you think us not naming it will keep me safe, then I’m not going to begrudge you that.” He looks away, melancholic. “No one has ever cared about my wellbeing before.” 

Aziraphale scoots closer, and takes Crowley’s face into his hands. “I have, my dear,” he says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then to both eyelids. Both cheeks. His nose. His chin. “I always have; I always will.” He kisses his lips. 

_“Angel,”_ Crowley breathes against his lips before catching them with his own, hungry for more of this now that he’s been given permission to have it. After a moment he pulls back, and murmurs, “Anything else we should discuss? Or can we-“ he nuzzles his nose against Aziraphale’s cheek, earning him a laugh, “Get on with more pleasant things?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale murmurs, fingers brushing over Crowley’s cheeks, “There is _one_ thing.” 

“What?” 

The angel playfully tugs on the beard on Crowley’s chin. “I _hate_ this thing.” 

The shift from serious to playful takes Crowley’s kiss-addled brain a moment to process, but when he does he throws his head back in a jovial laugh. “You’re an angel,” he says as he shakes from his amusement, “You don’t hate anything.” 

“I’m making an exception.” 

Crowley grins. “Then I’m keeping it. For _eternity.”_

Aziraphale glares. “Don’t you dare.” 

“You’re just going to have to convince me to get rid of it,” Crowley says, pressing as close to the angel as he can, “So. Convince me.” 

With a grin that Crowley will later classify as _wicked_ , Aziraphale shoves Crowley back onto the bed, and proceeds to thoroughly convince him on the matter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other playwright was Ben Jonson and he and some other playwrights had this big feud going on, and so Crowley exploits that to his advantage. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Ten: a little white lie has some very major, and amusing, consequences for both Crowley and Aziraphale


	10. Chapter Ten- The Great Coffee Debacle - 1570 - 1652

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little white lie has some very major, and amusing, consequences for both Crowley and Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading this story. I hope you’re enjoying it! 
> 
> Now for something way more lighthearted.

* * *

**Chapter Ten - The Great Coffee Debacle,** **1570-1652**

  
Late in the sixteenth century, Crowley finds Aziraphale and drags him to Turkey, declaring he’s heard of a new delicacy that he thinks the angel will love. 

“They take these little beans and roast them, then they pour hot water over them, drain it, and then drink it! It’s quite popular here, and I figured, seeing as how your the patron saint of food, you’d enjoy it.” 

Aziraphale scoffs. “I am not the patron saint of anything,” he says primly as he lets himself be dragged through the city. “We both know sainthood is something humans made up.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “The point is, though, that you enjoy food and drink, and I wanted to show you what I discovered, since you hadn’t heard of it.” 

Something about Crowley’s excitement endears Aziraphale to him more than the food itself. He doesn’t know what coffee is beyond Crowley’s description, but the fact that the demon had discovered a new dish while on assignment, had thought of Aziraphale, and then come running to introduce him to said treat is the most wonderful thing Aziraphale thinks he’s ever experienced. It’s _sweet_ ; it’s romantic. It’s exactly the sort of thing he doesn’t expect from Crowley, but isn’t surprised that the demon has done. 

They reach the establishment, a small restaurant that is apparently the first to apply the roasting method to these beans, and Crowley places their order. They take their seats and wait for their drinks. 

“So have you tried it yet?” Aziraphale asks, “What am I to expect?” 

Crowley shakes his head. “Didn’t want to try it before you,” he replies simply, “Figured you’d be annoyed if I showed up, rubbing it in your face that I had tried something like this without you.” 

“I wouldn’t be annoyed,” Aziraphale says, knowing full well he would have been, “But I appreciate that you opted to wait. It’s a bit exciting to try this together.” 

Crowelys cheeks flush at the words, and despite his dark tinted glasses, Aziraphale can tell he’s embarrassed. He makes a few nervous sounds that are more consonants than anything, before squealing out a mumbled, “No problem, angel.” 

While they wait, they make light conversation until their coffee arrives. Crowley watches as Aziraphale lifts the small cup, sniffing the drink experimentally, making a delighted sound as the rich aroma fills his nostrils. “Well, it certainly smells lovely,” he declares, then holds out his cup. “Cheers,” he says, grinning so sweetly that Crowley’s heart attempts some fumbling gymnastics and he nearly spills his own cup in an attempt to lift his cup to tap against the angel’s. 

“Go on,” Crowley says, “You should get to taste it first.” 

Aziraphale nods and tips the cup back to take a delicate sip, freezing mid-action. It’s only from centuries of practiced decorum and politeness that he refrains from spiting the bitter sludge out everywhere. Instead he swallows it in a thick gulp, and looks at Crowley, half expecting the demon to burst out laughing, pointing at him and reveling in how the angel fell for such an obvious joke. But Crowley is doing none of those things. He’s watching the angel intensely, worry creeping in on the edge of his expectant look. He’s sincere; he genuinely has no idea. 

“Well?” He asks, a bit softer than before; hesitant, almost. As if he’s afraid he’s done something wrong, has disappointed Aziraphale somehow. It breaks Aziraphale’s heart to upset Crowley, who had been so excited to share this with him. 

“Delicious,” Aziraphale manages to push out, feeling a sickening twist in his gut that he isn’t sure comes from the lie or the coffee. “Just a bit hotter than I was expecting.” 

Crowley visibly relaxes. “Oh! Terrific,” he says, then takes a drink from his own cup. His eyes widen comically, and he looks down at the cup, then to Aziraphale. “Blessed fuck,” he murmurs. 

“Quite right, dear, it is rather-“ 

“ _Amazing!”_

Aziraphale bites back an indignant squawk at such blasphemy, and instead nods with a touch too much enthusiasm. “Indeed,” he says as he holds back a grimace, “I take it you like it as well?” The lie burns, scalding his tongue, but he ignores it and instead focuses on Crowley. 

“It’s almost better than wine!” Crowley exclaims, “It’s so rich, and- and- it’s _fantastic!”_ He looks at Aziraphale, and the angel has never seen him more excited or pleased than in this moment. “I’m so glad I waited to share this with you,” he says, and Aziraphale has never wanted to scream so badly in his entire existence. 

“I’m glad as well,” he says, “This was a lovely treat; one that should be savored on special occasions, I think.” 

He hopes that such a sentiment will agree with Crowley. If he can get away with only having to swallow down a cupful of this sludge once every few decades, he might be able to keep the lie going. 

Unfortunately, it seems the demon has other ideas, if the grin on his face is any indication. “Or,” he says, wicked intent dripping from every syllable, “Now, hear me out, angel-“ 

—

Aziraphale has to admit, that if he ever truly desired to thwart his hereditary enemy at all, it would be now, because this has to be Crowley’s most demonic accomplishment yet. Upon returning to England, which is where they seem to spend the majority of their time, Crowley begins a campaign to spread word about an incredible, miraculous drink that seems to make one feel more energized and alive upon consumption. 

“It’s rich and warm and only the most sophisticated gents drink it,” he says, then he sits back and watches his devious plan spread. Soon enough, the roasted bean drink makes its way across Europe. He encourages it gladly, and frequently shows up to inform Aziraphale about his progress in making coffee become a worldwide sensation. 

Aziraphale bites his tongue and tries to discourage people from drinking it as slyly as he can, whispering about its addictive nature, though that only seems to _encourage_ people to drink more of it.

As the decades go on, Crowley invites Aziraphale out for coffee almost as much as he invites him out for wine and fine dining. The angel never complains, always grateful for any excuse to spend time with Crowley, but every time the demon orders a cup of coffee for him, he has to suppress a cringe and bite his tongue in order to not disappoint Crowley by confessing that he actually, genuinely, _loathes_ the stuff. 

It’s a secret Aziraphale intends to carry with him for eternity. Thankfully coffee is not a cultural phenomenon. It’s popular, to be sure, but it hasn’t become the staple that wine or tea have become over the years. Only those who travel extensively have access to it, but despite its prevalence amongst the social elite, it has mercifully not yet found its way into the social zeitgeist of England.

And then 1637 happens.

—

It was only a matter of time before coffee found its way to England, Aziraphale has to reluctantly admit. And now it’s here. 

True to Crowley’s demonic influence, it takes off just as it did in other countries, and soon everyone in London is scarfing down the roasted bean as if it were going out of style. The demon is delighted by this fact. And soon it becomes nearly impossible to escape the scent of roasted beans. The angel laments the craze, but thinks perhaps it will eventually die down. 

And then Crowley invites him to the Oxford Coffee Club. 

Aziraphale can’t resist the opportunity to discuss literature and philosophy with the brightest minds in England, and so he lets Crowley drag him to the club on a weekly basis. He enjoys chatting with the young men in the club, and Crowley seems content to simply drink coffee and spread some low-grade evil in the form of blatantly misunderstanding basic fundamentals of Plato which starts many a heated debate. This would all be well and good, Aziraphale thinks, if the demon didn’t also insist on buying Aziraphale a coffee _every single time_. 

He can do this, he thinks, as he gulps down a sip of coffee and tries not to gag. He can handle a cup of coffee a week. He can. Well… he can _try_. For Crowley. 

The things he does for love. 

—

It all comes to a head in 1650. 

Crowley watches as Aziraphale chats animatedly with several young scholars about something-or-other. Crowley stopped paying attention an hour ago, and is instead watching Aziraphale as he talks and laughs and gestures excitedly as he makes a point. He’s free here; happy and at ease, which is not how Crowley is used to seeing him. When they’re alone together he gets a good glimpse, but there’s always a slight bit of tension to the angel’s posture, as if he’s bracing for an attack from Above or Below at any moment. But here, in the Oxford Coffee Club, surrounded by mortals to whom he can freely spread light and love, he’s in his element. 

The others don’t notice, but Crowley can see how the angel practically _glows_. 

Distractedly, Crowley lifts his cup of coffee to his lips, and takes a long, luxurious sip. It’s his third cup today. He notices with a frown that Aziraphale’s cup is still full, though long grown cold. That’s become more normal than not, of late. Crowley will bring Aziraphale a cup, Aziraphale will smile and whisper a soft _thank you,_ take a sip, then set the cup down and begin speaking to one of the young men with whom he has become well acquainted, and then get so wrapped up in his conversation that by time they leave, he’s barely touched it, and the brew has gone cold and stale.

He always declines Crowley’s offer to get him another. Something along the lines of, “No thank you, dear. Why don’t we go back to yours and enjoy some wine instead. I heard the most fascinating theory about our old friend _di Vinci_ that I must share with you. It’s simply preposterous!” 

Crowley hides an endearing smile behind his cup, watching as Aziraphale argues good naturedly with another bloke who has joined their conversation. After a moment of laughter caused by something one of the other gents said, Aziraphale spares a glance over at him, and offers him a soft smile before he’s pulled back into the conversation at hand. 

Crowley sighs in contentment. He might not be part of the conversation, but he has his angel in his sights, and a hot cup of coffee in his hand. He’s oddly content. 

Of course, that feeling is instantly ruined by a man approaching the demon. He removes his hat and takes a seat beside Crowley. 

“Anthony, right?” 

“‘S’right,” Crowley says with a polite nod. He gestures to the other man’s cup. “Enjoying your miracle juice?” 

The man laughs. “That’s certainly one name for it,” he agrees. “And why I wanted to talk to you.” 

“What was your name again?” Crowley asks, leaning back leisurely, looking relaxed and unimpressed. He knows the man’s name, but likes to trip up seemingly overconfident men like this fellow. 

The man blinks. “Jacob,” he says, demeanor a little flatter than it was a moment ago. Crowley grins and sits forward. 

“Right,” he says, snapping his fingers, “Knew it started with a _J._ So, Jacob, what can I do for you?” 

Jacob grins. “Well,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, and begins to tell Crowley of his idea. It’s awful. It’s wonderful. It’s the kind of opportunity that Crowley can’t pass up. By the time he and Aziraphale leave for the evening, he’s got a deal with Jacobs, and a plan to put into action. 

—

“Come on, Aziraphale!” 

The angel huffs. “Honestly, darling, where are we going in such a rush?” 

They weave through the crowded streets of Oxford, Aziraphale complaining all the while. Today is the day Crowley has been waiting for for months, and he can’t wait to show Aziraphale what he’s done. They arrive at a corner shop that looks warm and inviting, with a lovely hand painted sign on the front displaying the name _Angel._

At the front is a line of people, all eloquently dressed and clearly from the upper echelons of society. Amongst them, Jacob appears, and walks up to Crowley, giving the demon an enthusiastic handshake. “Just as you said,” Jacobs beams, “We can’t seem to dwindle the line down! It’s a success!” 

“I’m sorry, but _what_ is a success?” Aziraphale asks, staring at the building and the line with growing confusion and worry. Crowley turns to the angel. 

“Surprise,” he says softly, waving Jacob away with a quick, “We’ll talk later, yeah?” 

Jacob nods and disappears once more, leaving the angel and demon alone. 

“What do you mean _surprise,”_ Aziraphale asks, fear creeping into the edges of the words. 

Crowley frowns. “It’s the first official coffee shop in England,” Crowley explains, “Jacob approached me about it a few months back at the Coffee Club. Thought it was a great idea so I invested. Great way to get people addicted- which is what I’ll tell head office, but I also demanded naming rights and, well,” he gestures to the sign once more. “Surprise.” 

Aziraphale’s hands slide together, twisting nervously. Crowley had hoped (which is shocking on its own) that Aziraphale might smile, might wiggle in delight and remark, “ _Oh, Crowley! You shouldn’t have!”_ As he tries to hide his obvious glee. 

“Oh, Crowley… you shouldn’t have…” Aziraphale says with a look of absolute despair. 

The demon blinks. “What?” 

With a tut of dismay, Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s hand and drags him to a nearby alleyway, away from the crowds. 

“Angel,” Crowley says worriedly, fearing perhaps he’s overstepped some unspoken boundary. They’ve given each other gifts before; he’d thought it acceptable to give the angel something special like this. But the look on Aziraphale’s face fills Crowley with dread. 

He’s really fucked this one up, it seems. 

“Aziraphale, I’m sorry,” he says hurriedly, “I thought you would like having a place named after you. Not for vanity, of course, but because it could inspire conversation over coffee and people can chat the way you do at the Club, and-“ 

“Crowley, darling, stop,” Aziraphale says, holding up a hand. Crowley goes quiet, and waits to be reprimanded. 

The angel looks out toward the street, and Crowley’s gaze follows. There is no one there; no one paying attention to this area. That seems to satisfy the angel, and he steps forward, cups the demon’s cheeks, and kisses him softly. 

Confusion makes Crowley slow to react, but finally he responds, arms winding around the angel’s waist as their lips brush together. After a moment, Aziraphale leans back, flushed and smiling. 

“My darling one,” he begins, “This is, without a doubt, the most thoughtful thing you have ever done.” 

Crowley flushes at that. “Hush.” 

“It’s true,” Aziraphale repeats, then takes a deep breath, as he does sometimes when he’s about to say something difficult. “The problem is… well… I have to be honest, my dear. I…” he looks away, as if ashamed. “ _Ihatecoffee,”_ he murmurs. 

The demon stares, dumbfounded. _“What?”_

“I _hate_ coffee!” Aziraphale exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation before pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t stand it. It’s so bitter and strong, and I feel wretched because you were so excited to introduce me to the drink that I just didn’t have the heart to tell you I didn’t like it!” 

Crowley stares, slack jawed. 

_All this time…_

“So you _lied_ to me?” Crowley asks, voice dangerously low, staring at the angel blankly, trying to process the _years_ that have gone by between that first encounter in Turkey and now, “For _decades?”_

Aziraphale winces at that. He reaches out and takes Crowelys hands in his, apologetic and humbled, “I’m so sorry, my darling. I feel terrible, lying to you, I truly do, but you were so happy and I didn’t want to disappoint you!” 

“Disa-“ Crowley stops short, a laugh bursting out of him in utter disbelief and relief as he uses the angel’s grip on his hands to tug him closer and kiss him. It’s not refined or eloquent from the way he’s smiling and laughing, but it gets the message across, and he feels Aziraphale relax against him. 

After a minute, Crowley ends the kiss and pulls his hands out of Aziraphale’s in favor of cupping the angel’s face, thumbs stroking over his plump cheeks. “Aziraphale,” he says seriously, “I have to be honest: I have _never_ been more attracted to you than I am in this moment. You _lied_ . To _me_ . _For_ me. For _decades_ .” He can’t help but laugh again, giddy and stupid and heart soaring with love. “Forget the fucking coffee! This is the greatest thing you have _ever_ done for me, you absolutely delightful bastard!” 

He kisses him again, and then once more just because. He kisses him several times, once for every year Aziraphale lied about liking coffee, and then kisses him more, simply because, if coffee is addictive, Aziraphale’s lips are a thousand times more so, and if Crowely had to choose, he’d never taste coffee again in favor of these plump, luscious lips. 

He vaguely feels himself being moved- Aziraphale has always been much stronger than him, and he quite frankly _loves it-_ and pressed against the stone of the dingy alley. Aziraphale is pressed against him, sandwiching him in place in the most delicious mix of warmth at his front and cold stone at his back. Crowley sighs, hands sliding away from his face to clutch the back of Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him closer. He feels the hands on his hips slide around to press into the small of his back, and his hips jerk forward, a mutual groan breaking the kiss and leaving them panting and flushed and a little hot under the collars. 

“So you’re not upset?” Aziraphale asks, glancing at Crowley with a touch of worry. 

“Upset?” Crowley scoffs, “Angel, this is _hilarious._ You forced yourself to drink coffee, _to make me happy_ , for years. And I _believed_ you. I don’t know what’s better- that you managed to successfully lie to me, or that you now have to live with the fact that you have a coffee shop named after you!” Crowley cackles in delight, “Oh this couldn’t have gone better if I’d _tried!”_

Aziraphale huffs, but he’s smiling. “I’m glad you’re pleased,” he says, then looks back toward the entrance of the alley. “We should probably leave before we’re spotted.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees with great reluctance as Aziraphale steps away, adjusting himself to rights. He looks polished, put together, except for the bruised lips and red cheeks. He’s stunning. 

“Back to my place for a drink to celebrate my successful business venture?” Crowley offers with an air of suavity he is surprised he managed to muster. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale says as he begins to move toward the street, “How about we visit the Angel?” 

“But you hate coffee,” Crowley remarks, following behind. 

“So?” Aziraphale says as he heads toward the building, a line of people still out front, waiting to place their order, “It would be terribly ungrateful of me to not patronize your establishment at least once.” 

“You’ve never been ungrateful,” Crowley remarks as he catches up with the angel. His hand lightly grasps Aziraphale’s elbow and leads him toward the entrance, away from the back of the line where Aziraphale has been heading. The angel falters, looking hesitantly at the line of people. 

“Shouldn’t we-“

“I own the place, Aziraphale,” he says dryly, “I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I like.” 

The angel hesitates, but eventually relents. “Oh, all right,” he says. 

They slip inside, Crowley pushing past a few people and answering their protests with a snide comment about the owner of the building being allowed to enter as he pleases. Those behind the counter recognize him, and he motions for he and Aziraphale to be served, which they are. Jacob is nearby, chatting animatedly with a few patrons in that jovial, salesman-like manner of his, and he looks up to wave at Crowley, who offers a nod in return. 

They’re served two cups of coffee, and the angel stares at his cup as if he’d been served poison and was being forced to drink it. He lifts the cup and takes a cursory sniff. 

“I don’t understand how it can smell so delicious but taste so foul,” he remarks, taking a cautious sip, grimacing as the bitter liquid hits his tongue. He more gulps than swallows that sip, and places the cup back on the table. 

Crowley leans forward, elbows resting on the white cloth table. “You don’t have to drink it for my sake,” he says softly. “You don’t have to… I dunno, _prove_ anything.” 

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Aziraphale replies, “I simply want to express my gratitude.” 

The demon wiggles his brow suggestively. “I can think of plenty of other ways you could express said gratitude,” he says with a lascivious upturn of his lips. 

To the demon’s surprise, Aziraphale meets his gaze and doesn’t seem scandalized in the slightest. “Oh? What did you have in mind?” 

Crowley blinks and sits back in his chair, properly upright for the first time in his existence. He hadn’t expected that. “Um.” 

Aziraphale leans forward, looking every bit as devious and tempting as Crowley imagines himself to be when he’s at his best. Which is decidedly not now. “Surely you have _something_ in mind,” he replies primly, “Else you wouldn’t have made the suggestion. So tell me, how would you like me to show my appreciation, hmm? I’m quite open to whatever that clever mind of yours has imagined.” 

Crowley balks, staring at the angel as if he were a stranger. Finally, he grabs his cup of coffee, downs it in one large gulp, then stands. “My place,” he croaks, nearly tripping over the chair as he tries to push it in, leave, and grab Aziraphale all in a single motion. “Is down the street.” 

“I’m aware,” Aziraphale says as he stands, calmly pushing his chair in. “I’ve been there quite a few times in recent months. 

“Ngk. Right.” 

Aziraphale pays, leaving a generous amount that more than covers the price of two coffees on the table, and walks out, Crowley following on unsteady feet. 

“So, what’s at your place that I can do to convey to you my appreciation?” 

“I am,” Crowley says before realizing how utter stupid that is, and corrects, fumbling, “I mean, I will be. Or-“ 

Finally, mercifully, the Angel takes pity on him. “Crowley, darling,” he says, catching the demon’s elbow and stopping them in the middle of the street. “If I had known my flirting with you so blatantly was going to have this reaction, I might have done it much sooner.” 

Crowley whimpers. 

“But as it stands,” the angel continues, “And as adorable as you are when completely flustered, if you would prefer I cease this teasing, I will at once.” 

“No!” Crowley blurts out, then clamps his mouth shut. A few passers by give him an odd look but continue on their way, and for a moment Crowley wishes he could either be struck down or discorporated, or _something_ to rid him of this embarrassment. 

The angel arches a perfectly manicured brow. 

“Sorry,” Crowley murmurs, “Just… excited.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes cast downwards in a most telling manner, then blink back up to meet Crowley’s gaze. The demon’s cheeks are as red as his hair. “Shut up. Not like that. Wait- _yes,_ like that, but- you know what? Shut up. Come on.” 

Laughing, Aziraphale follows. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY LISTEN. 
> 
> When I decided to include a chapter involving coffee, I spent some time researching the history of the drink, and was honestly surprised at how old it is. I’d have thought coffee to be a bit more modern, but no. It dates back to like, the 1400s. 
> 
> Anyway. While I was reading, I decided to do a search for the first coffee shop in Oxford, since that’s where Crowley and Aziraphale spend most of this chapter, thanks to the Oxford Coffee Club, which was a real thing. 
> 
> I then discover that the first coffee shop in Oxford was opened by a Jewish man named Jacob (no last name given)- and that coffee shop was called *Angel*. 
> 
> I put my phone down and just sat for about five minutes in stunned silence trying to process the absolute absurdity of that kind of coincidence. Naturally I *had* to make this chapter about that. When the universe hands you something that perfect, you don’t pass it up! 
> 
> Now, it’s 100% headcanon that Aziraphale hates coffee. In the show it’s Crowley who we see with a coffee cup more often than not, and as someone who LOATHES coffee, I thought it’d be a fun little comedy of errors type situation to have Crowley go through all this trouble only to learn Aziraphale doesn’t like the drink he just spent decades making popular for them. 
> 
> Anyway. I just had to share that bit about the coffeehouse named Angel because I STILL CANNOT HANDLE IT and I’ve been sitting on this chapter for like, two and a half months. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Eleven: a disaster strikes London, causing an angel to doubt and a demon to offer a little perspective.


	11. Chapter Eleven - London, September 2, 1666

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A disaster strikes London, causing an angel to doubt and a demon to offer a little perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you all enjoyed the last chapter! This one gets a little somber, but as always, there is hope. 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of fire/buildings burning.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven- London, The Evening of September 2, 1666**

Aziraphale stirs suddenly, pulled from his slumber with a jolt. It’s always disorienting, waking up. He doesn’t sleep often- there’s so many things to do to keep oneself occupied- but as he tries to shake away the sleepiness, he recalls what caused him to fall asleep this time. 

As usual, it’s because of Crowley. 

Said demon is currently pressed against him, warm and comforting through the fog of drowsiness that is slow to leave Aziraphale’s mind. The angel tries to place together what happened, and slowly he recalls that they’re in Crowley’s flat. 

They’ve only been reunited for a week. Aziraphale had received an assignment about two months ago, and after a very passionate but forlorn night together, he’d gone. Those two months had passed distressingly slowly, but finally he’d finished his assignment and had raced back to London. Upon his return they’d embarked on a weeklong indulgence- taking walks, enjoying the little bakery down the street, and most importantly, sharing each other’s space. It’s a small comfort, knowing that Aziraphale can look up from his reading and see Crowley just scant inches from him. It’s a true reprieve, to feel so close to someone, especially after how distant he feels from Heaven. 

It isn’t that he _wants_ to feel distant. He follows his orders with pride- well. Usually. Occasionally. Sometimes. There have been several orders he’s not felt very keen on doing, but he followed his orders anyway, and that’s what matters. Isn’t it? He’s honestly not so sure anymore, and it’s those thoughts that leave him feeling cold and full of dread on nights when he isn’t distracted by the warm and welcoming presence of a certain demon wrapped around him. At least when his thoughts linger on Crowley, he has no question as to where they stand with one another. 

Or, where they lie with one another. 

Aziraphale really hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d been reading a rather enthralling book, but Crowley had dragged him to the bed, telling the angel, _You can read anywhere, so read over here with me._ When the angel had teased the demon about wanting a cuddle, Crowley had scoffed, blushed, and mumbled something about _needing extra warmth since I’m cold-blooded._

With an indulgent smile, Aziraphale had obliged. Crowley had curled up against his side while the angel read quietly, and had fallen asleep. At some point during the evening, the allure of cuddling close to the demon as he slept had become much more enticing than anything happening in his novel, and so Aziraphale had placed it aside and curled up behind Crowley, wrapping him up in his embrace, and let the soothing rhythm of the demon’s steady breathing lull him to sleep as well. 

But now he’s awake, and despite the warmth and coziness of being together, Aziraphale can’t shake the feeling that something is intrinsically _wrong_. It takes him a few moments to sit up and focus. Suddenly, his senses seem to all start working in tandem, and he hears the sound of screams, the sound of a bell clanging almost frantically, and most notably, he realizes as his nose scrunches- 

The air reeks of smoke. 

Slipping out of bed, Aziraphale moves to the window, pulling back the curtain. Flames that stretch toward the heavens greet his gaze, the red-orange glow obscuring his vision. Fire is all he can see, and for a moment he feels oddly frozen, images of a great library of old sheathed in flames filling his mind. 

_Not again,_ he thinks desperately as he looks upon the city of London. 

A city on fire. 

Rushing to the bed, Aziraphale takes no care in how he rouses Crowley. He shakes him hard, causing the demon to hiss and groan at being disturbed so abruptly. 

“Angel, what the-“ 

“ _Crowley!”_ Aziraphale snaps, “London is burning!” 

The demon is often much slower than Aziraphale to wake up. His body is slow, his mind dull, and he usually relishes this strange haze of being as he slowly comes to. But any leisurely haze is shirked at the angel’s words, and Crowley is out of bed and dressed with the snap of his fingers. 

“What happened?” He asks as he dons a pair of sunglasses and follows Aziraphale out the door. Around them is chaos. The air is thick with smoke and smog, ash falling around them like burnt snow. It’s unbearably hot, with flames licking about them everywhere, and Aziraphale wonders for a moment if this is what Hell is like. 

“I don’t know,” the angel breathes. 

“We have to do something,” Crowley says urgently. 

“What can we do,” the angel asks as people rush around them, the fire brigade fighting a losing battle against the flames. 

“You miracle as much of the fire away as you can,” the demon instructs, already moving to where they can hear screams. “I’ll try to find anyone stuck inside.” 

The angel catches Crowley’s hand. “Be careful,” Aziraphale says firmly, and Crowley surges forward, kissing the angel before he jerks out of his grasp and runs in the direction of screams. 

Aziraphale turns, and stares down the flame-ridden street. He cracks his knuckles. “To work,” he says, and begins to work a miracle. 

—

The fire rages. 

For the next three days, Aziraphale and Crowley work tirelessly alongside the humans to put out the fire. Aziraphale depletes his energy quickly, using several miracles to stop the spread of the fire once he realizes his efforts to put out flames doesn’t seem to matter when the fire moves so quickly. Instead he manages to create a barrier that keeps the fire from moving further, locking it in place so the fire brigade can focus their efforts in one location. 

Crowley spends the first twelve hours racing through burning buildings, dragging unconscious bodies out and onto the street. The fire tickles his skin, but does little else, unlike the poor souls he has to carry out through smoke and flame. He miracles out the ones in the most danger, but tries to keep that to a minimum so as not to alert Hell of his actions. He doesn’t have a reason figured out if he’s questioned, but he can’t be bothered to worry about it. “Can’t tempt people to sin if they’re dead,” he mutters to himself as he drags an unconscious family out of one house and into safety. 

He stops for a moment, taking stock of the damage around him. Most of the buildings are in ruins. He can see people frantically running around, can see flames and more flames. It’s nearly blinding, how bright it is. It’s equally hot, miserable and stifling. Crowley wipes the sweat from his brow, and glances to the sky. The sun is rising. 

He makes a final sweep of the building behind him, then goes to find the angel. 

—

Aziraphale looks ready to collapse. 

His once cream-colored attire now looks more grey than anything. His cheeks are a mix of pink from the heat and black from soot. His hair is a salt-and-pepper mixture, and he stands with slumped shoulders and bags under his eyes that manage to add an age to him that, as an ethereal being, he’s otherwise impervious to. 

They move to an alleyway for some privacy. Aziraphale sags against the wall and slides to the ground. “It’s too much,” he breathes after a moment, eyes Heavenward. “It’s too much, Crowley. I can't-“ he pauses to take a breath, “I don’t know how much I have left. It’s contained- it shouldn’t spread further. But I don’t think I can do much more. I’m absolutely drained.” 

“It’s okay,” Crowley says as he sits down beside the angel to catch his own breath. “I got a bunch of people out. They’ll be okay. We’re doing what we can. The humans can do the rest.”

Aziraphale drops his gaze. “I had hoped-“ he sighs again and reaches for Crowley’s hand. “I had hoped we would get a chance to just… I don’t know… _breathe,”_ the angel says. “We just got through _another_ bout of the Plague. I thought for certain we were due a reprieve.” 

“It has been… rough…” Crowley agrees, coughing from the amount of smoke he’s inhaled. It won’t cause any lasting damage for him, but the human action is oddly comforting. Lets him know this body he wears is functioning. That he’s alive. 

They sit in silence for several minutes. Around them the world races on in chaos. Aziraphale recalls the calm of waking up next to Crowley. Of the naivety of thinking something so good could last. Nothing good can last; of that Aziraphale is certain. 

“I curled up to you last night,” the angel whispers, exhaustion making every word feel heavy on his tongue, “And it was so peaceful,” he smiles, in spite of himself. “I thought, _how lovely it would be, to live in this moment forever._ But we can’t… can we? We seem doomed to watch humanity take one step forward, then two steps back. And I find myself struggling to enjoy the moments in between those steps, because I _know_ the good can’t last. Because it never has.”

“That’s rather pessimistic,” Crowley remarks, but he doesn’t argue the point. 

“It’s _realistic,”_ Aziraphale says. “Humans have the luxury of not being immortal. A tragedy happens and they live through it, but then they pass on, and a new lot of humans come along, and that horrible tragedy is nothing more than a story. A song. A poem. A memory. But you and I? We live it. Over and over and _over_ again. We see the same things happen time and time again, but for these people, it’s the first time. It’s new. But for us… for me… it’s _old_.” 

“Point,” Crowley agrees weakly. He doesn’t _want_ to agree, but the angel isn’t wrong. 

They sit in silence for a bit, catching their breath and trying to recoup their exhausted energy. After several minutes, the angel huffs out a small, breathless laugh. “It always goes down like a lead balloon.” 

Crowley rolls his head, keeping the back of it pressed against the wall, to look at Aziraphale curiously. “What?” 

“Do you remember the day we met?” The angel asks, turning to look at Crowley. He nods. 

“‘Course.” 

“That was the first thing you said to me,” Aziraphale mutters, eyes trailing over Crowley’s features, taking in the spot stained cheeks and tired eyes. “Regarding Adam and Eve. It went down like a lead balloon.”

“‘Cause it _did.”_

“I know,” the angel agrees. His gaze flickers past Crowley, out toward the street where the fire still blazes. “I can’t tell you how many times those words have echoed in my mind over the millenia. Every time something goes wrong, I think of lead balloons.” 

“There have been a lot of things that have been mucked up over time,” Crowley agrees, pulling his knees to his chest, “All the wars, plagues…”

“And that’s just what’s come at the hands of War and Pestilence,” Aziraphale says, letting his head fall back to press against the wall, “It just feels like everywhere I look, something is always going ‘down like a lead balloon’. I sometimes can’t help wondering if earth is one big lead balloon, destined to crash into a heap of ruin and regret, and then I wonder if it’s worth it to try as hard as we do…” 

Crowley is silent for a long moment. Then he scoots closer, wraps his hand around the angel’s bicep. Under the soft skin is an impressive amount of muscle, and Crowley squeezes softly, feeling the power underneath the soft exterior of his angel. 

“Do you remember Bakerhouse?” 

Aziraphale blinks, rummaging through the cluttered mess of memories stored in his mind, like a bookshop bursting to the brim with books. “The cottage in the country,” he says, eyes alighting with recognition, “1536. Why?” 

Crowley curls closer to him. “We stayed there for three months before you were called away to Spain,” Crowley says softly, “And do you remember what we did during those three months?” 

“A great deal of nothing, as I recall,” Aziraphale says simply, “You were in mourning. We went on walks through the gardens, you read to me while I brushed your hair.”

“We went skinny dipping in the lake that one evening in July,” Crowley adds with a grin. Aziraphale huffs. 

_“You_ went skinny dipping. I merely watched.” He realizes the implication of those words and tries to backtrack, “I mean, I didn’t _watch-_ “ 

“Like it when you watch me, angel,” Crowley says, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Anyway. The point is, we did a whole lot of nothing for three months. And I know I was mourning, but even with that, those three months are some of my fondest memories. Just you and me, existing together… sure there was war and Henry was a right prick-“ 

“I still feel awful about poor Jane,” Aziraphale sighs. 

“He didn’t seem too bothered, considering he married three more times after that.” 

“Very true,” Aziraphale agrees, then reaches out to take Crowley’s hand. “Those are your fondest memories?” 

“Some of them,” Crowley replies, “Rome, back in the day. The day you kissed me. The first time you sucked my-“ 

“You were making a _point,”_ Aziraphale interrupts. 

“My point is… even if this whole planet is a lead balloon and we’re mid-crash… there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, if here means being with you.” 

Aziraphale turns, eyes misty as he looks at Crowley, whose own golden gaze is prickled with us he’s tears, “Oh, my darling…” 

He leans forward to kiss him, then presses their grimy foreheads together. It reminds him of the first time they’d dealt with the Plague- the stench of death and decay all around them, people panicked and uncertain… and yet they’d carved out a moment for themselves to simply exist. So they did after Anne’s execution, and during the Authurian period when they were meant to be both immortal and mortal enemies. For every tragedy they’d witnessed, for every great triumph that rose out of those ashes of destruction, there had been a singular place for them, within the world but removed from it all the same, where they can co-exist. 

Like now. 

“When you put it like that,” Aziraphale concludes softly, “Perhaps it is worth it.” 

“Always is, if it means we can be together,” Crowley whispers. 

They share a kiss. They taste of smoke and ash, but neither cares as they simply revel in the very human moment. Finally, they break apart, and Aziraphale looks at Crowley. He seems to come to some conclusion, and with a grunt, stands to his feet. 

“We should probably get back out there.” 

Crowley grabs his hand. “You’re exhausted,” he protests. 

“And so are the humans,” he says simply. “And besides. I _want_ to help.” 

“Sap,” Crowley says, as he stands, brushing soot off his clothing with little success. He moves to stand beside Aziraphale. Their hands link together almost on instinct, and they walk toward the street. The fire is still blazing, but seems to be dying. 

A moment later, it begins to rain. 

As droplets pelt them with increasing intensity, the Angel tilts his head back and sighs. When he rights himself, eyes open wide, he feels a strange sense of rejuvenation. Beside him, Crowley smirks. 

“Maybe their luck is turning around,” he says, holding out one hand to catch droplets as they fall. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale agrees, “But I prefer not to leave the human’s fate to chance. I was placed here as a guardian, after all. So I think it’s time I do my job. Are you with me?” 

Crowley squeezes his hand. 

“Always, Aziraphale.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Lesson: 
> 
> The great fire of London went on for about 6 days and did a ton of damage. There are only 6 recorded deaths, but historians now suspect that it may be a lot more and because many of the people in that area were poor, the authorities weren’t really.... concerned. Plus there wouldn’t have been any way to ID anyone, had they found remains. 
> 
> I like to imagine that, for the purposes of this fic, that it’s because Crowley managed to save everyone else. 
> 
> Also, the fire supposedly started in a bakery. 
> 
> Also also, as far as I know it didn’t rain during the fire and that was added purely for artistic purposes. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Twelve: a long-term project Aziraphale has been working on in China comes to an end, prompting him and Crowley to have a discussion about what’s next for them. 
> 
> Anyway. Thank you for reading. Love you all.


	12. Chapter Twelve - China, 1726

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-term project Aziraphale has been working on in China comes to an end, prompting him and Crowley to have a discussion about what’s next for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. But there is smut!

* * *

_   
_ **Chapter Twelve- China, 1726**

Aziraphale enters the small house he’s been renting, a mix of emotions stirring violently in his heart. Firstly, he’s exhausted. As an angel he’s used to being up for days, weeks,  _ years _ on end. But the mental strain of the past week has been great, if not utterly fulfilling. It’s been a long four years, but they’ve been nothing short of incredible. Today, especially, is one for the books. It’s the fruition of twenty-six years of labor, and though Aziraphale had only been involved toward the end, he can’t help but feel a distinct sense of pride and accomplishment. But mixed in with that, is a distinct and strange sorrow. 

He’d come to China on an order from Heaven, but it had been easily handled in a matter of days. While here, he’d come across an endeavor that had captured his distinct interest, and had written to Crowley excitedly, telling him that he would be in China for some time, and the demon should come visit soon. 

Crowley had come almost immediately, and had simply never left. 

But today, things have come to an end. It’s over, and now he has no reason to stay here. He feels lost, afloat with vague possibility. There’s excitement; perhaps he can follow Crowley somewhere. Perhaps the demon has something in the works and they can venture to some new place and enjoy their romance while Crowley does whatever it is he does for fun. 

The angel sighs. He loved working on the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng.  _ He’s spent the last four years helping the scholars and editors write out and copy centuries of knowledge- he’d even provided some extra intel from his own first-hand experiences of certain events. It reminds him of his days in the library of Alexandria, working long hours surrounded by the culmination of all human understanding. His heart had broken when the library burned. His heart aches now as he thinks about leaving this place. Of returning to a nomadic life of traveling at Heaven’s whim. 

He wants stability. He wants to pursue his own interests. He wants to cling to the feeling that being around these scholars inspires. He wants… 

He wants a place to call home. 

As Aziraphale deposits his belongings, he’s distracted from his melancholic musings by a distinct smell in the air, and upon recognition, closes his eyes and inhales deeply, the familiar scent filling him with a warmth and comfort he so desperately needs. 

From behind him, a pair of slim, wiry arms wrap around his waist and warm lips press against his shoulder blades where, in another plane his wings twitch. 

“Hey, angel,” Crowley whispers.

The angel hums in contentment and turns, welcoming the demon into his embrace. Being in Crowley’s arms is comforting, soothing the ache that hammers in Aziraphale’s chest. He wastes no time claiming Crowley’s lips, holding him close and kissing him passionately. He knows Crowley: knows the demon will ask how things are going, how the progress is coming along. He doesn’t want to say. Doesn’t want to admit it’s over. Not yet. So he keeps kissing him, sighing as Crowley flicks his serpent's tongue against the angel’s bottom lip. Aziraphale sighs, opening his mouth to Crowley, who deepens the kiss, hands sliding down the angel's arms before slipping around his waist. 

Eventually Crowley breaks away. “I made dumplings,” he murmurs, gasping as Aziraphale’s lips travel from Crowley’s lips to his cheek, down his jaw, and to his throat. 

“Mmmhmm,” Aziraphale says, not breaking away from where he’s latched onto the demon’s pulse point, sucking a bruise against it before releasing it and soothing the pleasant ache with his tongue. 

“Someone’s eager,” Crowley remarks breathlessly, pressing against Aziraphale and moaning softly as the angel shifts, using the hand that’s traveled to the small of Crowley’s back to hold him steady as he presses a knee between the demon’s legs. 

“Missed you,” Aziraphale murmurs as he continues peppering kisses over every inch of skin he can reach. 

“Missed you too,” Crowley says through a gasp, “But you’re home now, yeah?” 

_ I am,  _ Aziraphale thinks,  _ Or rather, I want to be.  _

“Yes.” 

“Wanna tell me about things over dinner?” Crowley offers half-heartedly. Aziraphale shakes his head and pushes Crowley toward their bed. 

“Later.” 

Crowley collapses back, but uses his grip on the angel to pull him down over him, not once breaking the kiss as he wiggles, moving his legs until Aziraphale is properly cradled between the demon’s thighs.

Crowley divests them of their clothing with a simple, lazy, snap, then reaches down to take the angel in his grasp. Aziraphale trembles. “Oh, my most darling one,” he gasps, hips jerking at the contact, “I can’t decide what do to with you.” 

“Then I’ll choose: get up here and let me have you.” 

“As you wish, my darling,” Aziraphale says, adjusting so that he can straddle Crowley’s chest. The demon leans up on his elbows and takes the angel’s cock in his mouth, sliding all the way until the angel is fully pressed between Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale sighs, and waits for Crowley to adjust and settle before he begins to fuck the demon’s mouth. 

Little by little, Aziraphale moves, just as little by little, they’ve inched their way to this kind intimacy. What had once been a fleeting brush of hands that made Aziraphale fret with worry should they be discovered has morphed into holding one another in despair; to hugs and clasped hands, to kisses to comfort, then to tantalize. They’d naturally found their hands wandering when kissing became something not-so-new (but never not delightful) and before long Aziraphale couldn’t think of a reason  _ not _ to let Crowley undo his trousers. Couldn’t think of a reason not to let hips speak the words his lips cannot, in hurried and shallow thrusts mixed with long and slow snaps that make Crowley’s eyes cross and his own cock twitch in desperate need. Now Aziraphale can’t think why he’d ever hesitated to begin with. Surely something this profound, this warm, this beautiful, can’t be wrong? 

_ What if I did the good thing and you did the bad one?  _

Azirapahle doesn’t know who did the good thing that day; but he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t care if what they’re doing now is ‘bad’ by Heavenly standards.  _ Crowley _ is bad by those standards. 

_Those standards_ _are wrong_. 

_ Heaven is wrong.  _

He knows, deep down, he’d been in no less trouble for holding Crowley’s hand than he would be if he were caught with his cock in the demon’s arse. What matters is that it’s  _ Crowley _ . But as far as Aziraphale is concerned, anything done with Crowley- be it getting drunk or kissing, or helping the humans in their worst moments, or something as satisfying as fucking- so long as Aziraphale does it with Crowley, so long as they are  _ together- _ he calls it good. 

He can’t throw all caution to the wind- his first and primary duty as Crowley’s partner and lover is to protect him- and so he does not speak with words what his body is all but screaming. Crowley knows. And Aziraphale can feel the love that radiates off Crowley as prominently as if it were an overwhelming cologne. It is overwhelming, but far more pleasant. In turn, Azirpahle allows himself to feel lust for Crowley- he cannot sense love, but he can sense lust- and so the angel twists all his desire: for Crowley’s hands, his body, his words, his mind, his heart- he takes that primal craving and packages it up and delivers it with a sharp thrust of his hips, and the demon moans, choking on the intensity of the angel’s cock and his desire, and then pulls back to speak,  _ “Please.”  _

They rearrange themselves so Crowley is once more lying down, propped up on some pillows to allow the angel to press into him. He’s already ready, and Aziraphale tuts in mild disappointment at that fact. “Really, now,” he says, hands grazing up thin thighs. 

“Are you complaining? Its been a month and a half since we’ve properly fucked. Forgive me for being a touch impatient.” 

“Forgive me for being so negligent,” Aziraphale says as he lines them up and presses slowly inside, cherishing the hitch of breath that escapes Crowely. 

“Nothing to forgive,” Crowley murmurs in a haze of pleasure, “Just do that again.” 

Aziraphale does. He fucks Crowley hard, giving himself over fully to the moment. He wants this to last. He doesn’t want things to end. He doesn’t want to go back to the life they had before. He’s tired of wandering around. He’s tired of waiting for the next assignment. He wants purpose; distinct from Heaven. He wants a life with Crowley. He wants to tell the demon how fiercely and fully he loves him. He wants to settle down with the demon he loves, and let Heaven and Hell handle their own affairs. 

He wants so many things, but mostly he just wants to stay in this moment forever. 

He feels Crowley tremble and come beneath him with a ragged cry, and follows him over the edge. 

He collapses on top of Crowley’s back, damp with sweat, and uses every ounce of willpower to fight back his tears. 

—

Later, once Crowley cleans himself off and shoo’s Aziraphale away to take a proper bath, the demon grabs the dumplings, a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and returns to the bed. After a few minutes, Aziraphale emerges looking refreshed and feeling a bit better. Baths really can work a certain type of miracle that eludes even the most powerful divine magic. He sees the makeshift picnic spread out on the bed and looks at Crowley with a beaming grin before joining him on the bed. “These look scrummy,” he says as he picks one up. They’re still warm by work of a miracle, and he takes a delicate bite, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes slip shut. 

“Mmm, darling, these are fantastic!” He says as he takes another bite. “You’ve really mastered the art of cooking dumplings.” 

“Had plenty of practice,” the demon shrugs as he picks one up and nibbles at it. Even after all this time- even after dining with Aziraphale countless times over the years- he still hasn’t quite managed to find a particular liking for food. He likes some things, certainly, but Crowley tends to veer toward  _ sloth _ whereas Aziraphale, while not  _ gluttonous _ , certainly enjoys indulging in the culinary delights of humans. His eyes widen as he chews. “Hey, that’s not bad, at all,” he remarks, pleasantly surprised. He’s been making dumplings off and on for the past couple years to stave off the boredom he feels when not particularly interested in getting up to something properly demonic. So, he’s been practicing dumplings, and while Crowley never once in his existence thought he’d end up enjoying the art of baking and cooking, he finds his time in China has led to that very thing. 

The world is just full of surprises. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees as he picks up another one. 

“So,” Crowley says, nibbling on the dumpling he’d selected, “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Aziraphale tenses. “Going on?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley remarks simply, “With the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng.  _ You know, the whole reason we’re here? How’s it coming? When we talked a week ago you were almost finished.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, trying to appear more excited than he feels, “Yes! It was completed, just this morning. A few of us worked overnight to ensure everything is as it should be, and it has officially been declared complete!” 

“And are you pleased with the result?” Crowley asks. 

“Oh, very,” Aziraphale beams, and this time it’s genuine. “The  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng  _ is rather spectacular, if I do say so myself. It’s truly an accomplishment of human ingenuity, not  _ quite _ to the extent of the Great Library, but this is certainly a modern equivalent, in my opinion.” 

Crowley nods in agreement, mostly because he’s inclined to agree with Aziraphale on these matters. The angel knows more about great triumphs in literature than Crowley, so if the angel thinks the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng  _ is a modern marvel, then Crowley sees no reason to doubt him. “So when can I see it?” 

The angel makes a face. “I’m not sure I know,” he muses, “I don’t know if it’s going to be made available to everyone. Or where they’re going to store it all, in fact.” 

“Good thing I’ve got an angel who knows where it’s  _ currently  _ being stored, then,” Crowley muses as he eyes the angel, not quite pleading, but giving him eyes that he knows the angel won’t be able to resist. As besotted as Crowley is with Aziraphale, as eager as he is to do anything the angel asks, he knows that there are times when the angel is simply unable to deny him, too. Like getting a chance to show off the Imperial Encyclopedia he helped write and copy. “You can slip us in and out, unnoticed.” 

“I’m not going to  _ break into _ the palace!” Aziraphale gasps, affronted. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, angel! I wanna see the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng! _ ” 

“You’ve had plenty of opportunities to come with me,” the angel fusses. “ _ You _ didn’t want to.” 

“Because  _ you _ lamented me seeing it before it was complete!” Crowley argues, though there’s no heat to his words. This sort of banter is their usual, part of the routine of things. It’s something Crowely enjoys immensely. Aziraphale does too, though he’s less inclined to admit to it. “You said it would be best if I saw it when it was finished, which it is! So come on, angel. I’ve not done anything even remotely demonic in  _ months,”  _ he says with a pout that he knows Aziraphale wants nothing more than to kiss away. “A little demonic miracle to slip us past the guards will be just the thing. A reward for my lack of bad behavior.” 

“Stop trying to tempt me, you wily serpent,” Aziraphale huffs, though he already knows he’s done for. He can’t resist Crowley, master of temptations or not, and if he’s honest, he wants to show off the collection he helped edit and print. 

“Why? Is it working?” Crowley asks, smirk betraying the puppy-dog-eyes look he’s been throwing at the angel. 

“It  _ is _ and you  _ know  _ it.” 

“Then come on. Take me. I wanna see your hard work.” 

“It’s not  _ my _ hard work,” Aziraphale explains, with the sigh of a man who has had to explain this very thing more than once. “It’s the work of a great many people who have dedicated countless hours of their lives to ensure that this knowledge is preserved and-“ 

The angel continues to lecture Crowley about the process involved in creating the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng.  _ The demon listens intently the whole way, enraptured by how brilliant the angel is. 

—

Much later- more appropriately, in the very early hours of the morning- the two of them appear in the room with the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng. _ Trespassing is no more than a parlour trick for a practiced demon, and with a  _ snap! _ time is frozen to ensure the guards outside the room won’t bother them. Crowley looks around them, in what appears to be nothing more than a library. 

“Huh,” he says after a moment. “Thought it’d be more…” he trails off, looking for the proper word. 

“What do you mean  _ huh,”  _ Aziraphale huffs, mimicking the way Crowley had made the sound, “It’s centuries of knowledge, all bound together! There are ten thousand volumes,” he says, gesturing around them, just in case the demon is unaware. “Covering a vast variety of subjects!” 

Crowley moves to one of the shelves and plucks a roll from one of the shelves. “Careful,” Aziraphale gasps as he moves closer, hand outstretched as if he were a parent worrying over their child. But Crowley has been around Aziraphale a long time; he knows him better than anyone. And he knows how much the angel reveres books, knowledge. He’s careful in how he handles the roll, gently opening it and taking great care as he reads the  _ pinyin _ script. 

Aziraphale settles after a moment, and moves to read over the demon’s shoulder. After a few minutes, Crowley leans his weight against the angel, who wastes no time wrapping his arms around the demon, his chin resting on his shoulder. They read in silence for a few minutes before Crowley eases out of the angel’s embrace and places the roll back. 

“Show me one you did,” he says. 

Aziraphale smiles, and moves along the wall of scrolls until he finds one - how he knows which one he had his hand in, Crowley will never know- and returns to show Crowley his handiwork. As he excitedly explains the research that had gone into it, the process of editing and then setting everything up for print, Crowley studies the angel, a bit more smitten than ever. This place suits Aziraphale. 

Eventually Aziraphale notices the demon doesn’t seem to be listening.

“Are you even paying attention?” 

“Not at all,” Crowley admits freely. Before Aziraphale can fuss, he takes the roll from him, carefully. “This is just… the happiest I’ve ever seen you.” 

Aziraphale stops. Blinks. “Well,” he muses, “I enjoy my work. It’s satisfying, to do something that’s important to  _ me.”  _

“It’s a good look on you,” Crowley says, “You. Doing what you love.” 

The angel eyes him suspiciously. “What are you saying?” 

The demon shrugs. “Nothing. Just. You’ve been so happy, nose buried in rolls and books and things. And last night, when you got home… you didn’t  _ want  _ to talk about it.” 

“I was a bit busy enjoying inter-“

“One, don’t call it intercourse,” Crowley interrupts smoothly, “And two, you  _ have always _ wanted to talk about the progress of the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng.  _ There were times when you wouldn’t shut up about it for anything, but last night I had to practically interrogate you to get information. You ignored dumplings, angel. You distracted me with sex- not that I’m complaining, it’ll work every time, and I encourage you to do it more in future- but… I dunno. I just think you’re upset that your work is finished.” 

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment. He looks at the roll, then gingerly takes it from Crowley and caresses it. He smiles thoughtfully, then moves and replaces it on the shelf. 

“Can we go home now?” Aziraphale asks softly. 

“Course,” Crowley says. He reaches out and takes the angel’s hand, their fingers entwining with centuries of practiced familiarity. With his free hand, he snaps his fingers twice, unfreezing time first and then transporting them back to the little house they’ve been renting for the past two years. Once there, Aziraphale putters about for a few minutes, opening a fresh bottle of wine and collecting some glasses before following Crowley to the bed where he’s sitting on the edge. He hands the demon a glass and then fills it, followed by his own. He takes a rather uncharacteristically large gulp of wine, as if to steal his nerves, and then reaches out to take Crowley’s free hand. Even then, he can’t find it in him to speak. 

“What’s bothering you, angel?” Crowley asks softly, scooting closer to Aziraphale, “Something clearly is.”

Aziraphale takes a shuddering breath. “You’re right,” he says at length. “I am happy here. Working on the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng _ has been one of the highlights of my existence. I love books. I love helping humans write and curate and collect them. I adore learning, and reading, and I have amassed a rather impressive collection of books during my travels, but I keep having to move them around and… it’s no trouble as I can simply miracle them wherever I go, but-“ 

He cuts himself off, and looks away. Crowley says nothing, knowing it best to let Aziraphale process and speak in his own time. 

“But there’s something about this place,” Aziraphale says, looking around them, “That makes me wish we could have  _ this _ . Permanently. The two of us, together. Both of us pursuing our own interests.”

“What do you  _ want,  _ Aziraphale?” Crowley asks gently, fingers rubbing soothing circles over the angel’s knuckles. “Say the word, and I’ll make it happen. But you have to tell me, exactly, what it is you want. You want permanency? You have it. Just tell me  _ how _ you want it, and it’s yours. Ours.” 

“I… I want to open a bookshop,” Aziraphale confesses, and when the words leave him, it’s like his heart is released from a vice grip in his chest. His lungs expand with a breath of relief, and it’s the most glorious breath he’s ever taken. He feels lighter, somehow. “Like one of those little ones in London. On a corner, somewhere. I want to collect books from all over the world and keep them there. I want to settle down. Put down some roots, as it were. Have a place to go where we can have this, every day, if we want it. A haven, from our jobs and opposing sides. A place just for us.” 

A moment passes, as slow as if time had stopped. Then, with utmost care, Crowley reaches out, taking the cup from Aziraphale’s other hand. He places both of them on the floor, then slides closer on the bed, cups the angel’s face in his hands and kisses him. 

Aziraphale gasps against Crowley’s lips, but returns the kiss, soft and gentle. Eventually Crowley breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far. His forehead presses against the angel’s and for a long moment he says nothing, just keeps the angel close to him. Aziraphale worries perhaps this is too fast. Perhaps he’s jumped the gun, and shouldn’t have said anything so soon. He shouldn’t even want this to begin with. But Heaven hasn’t uttered a word to him in centuries. The last time he heard from the Almighty directly was when She asked after his sword. He knows he is still an angel, smothered in the Almighty’s grace. But he’s never felt so distant. He’s never felt more  _ human _ , than in this moment when his heart hammers in his chest as he waits for Crowley to share his thoughts on the matter. 

He rather likes how it feels. 

“I think that’s a terrific idea,” Crowley whispers against his lips in between kisses. 

Aziraphale’s heart  _ soars _ . “Really?” 

Crowley leans back just enough to look at the angel. He slides one hand down to tilt Aziraphale’s chin up. “I think a bookshop would suit you. It’s perfect, really. Maybe I’ll find a place, too. A posh flat where we can go on weekends and spend the entire time in bed.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Then you can go back on Monday morning and sell books and I’ll come ‘round and tempt you to close early so we can get lunch. It’ll be  _ perfect.”  _

“You really mean it?” Aziraphale asks, breathless. Excited. Hopeful. 

“‘Course I do,” Crowley says as simply as that. “It’ll be grand, knowing we have a place of our own to come back to after whatever stupid errand we get sent on next. No more worrying about lodging; moving around. We’ve been on earth long enough,” he reasons, “May as well get ourselves a proper residence.” 

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale laughs, giddy and relieved and so very grateful. He hugs Crowley, whispering his thanks in the demon’s ear, causing Crowley to flush and sputter that’s  _ it’s nothing, angel really.  _

After that, they lie on the bed and discuss potential places they might want to call home. They decide to keep an open mind, and rather than limit themselves to a certain country, they’ll take their time and wait for the right residence, regardless of where it is. 

After that, the conversation drifts. They talk about everything; they talk about nothing. They giggle at the thought of their future, bright in spite of the ever-looming threat of their head offices. 

After a few minutes of silently chewing on the question, Aziraphale asks, “When was the last time you were contacted? In any capacity?” 

It’s telling when Crowley has to actively  _ think _ about the last time Hell sent him anything. “Well, there was the Spanish Inquisition,” he says after a moment. “Got a commendation from Lord Beelzebub for that one.” 

“Darling, you got drunk, cried, and then slept for a month straight over the Inquisi-“ 

_ “Not  _ the _ point,  _ angel,” Crowley interrupts tersely. 

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“Then there was…” Crowley’s brow scrunches as he thinks long and hard. Finally, he remembers. “Ah! Had an order in 1721 for a few temptations in Amsterdam and Florence.” 

“And none since?” 

Crowley shakes his head. 

“My last missive was in 1725,” he says. 

“The one in Spain?” Crowley recalls, “I hopped over for you, since you were neck deep in scrolls.” 

“Yes, I was most appreciative of that,” the angel smiles, that sweet, indulgent look that is only ever given to Crowley. “Do you recall? In the beginning? Orders used to come every month. Then it was a few a year. Then one every five years. They frequently had several tasks per letter, but even so. The longer we go on, the less interested it seems either side really is.” 

“If you think about it,” Crowley continues, “There’s just…  _ so much _ happening. Makes you wonder how they keep up with it all.” 

“When there were fewer humans, it was easier to manage,” Aziraphale agrees, “Now there are so many. And more everyday. And most of the time, our influence isn’t even needed. They fight each other as easily as they gather together to create the most amazing works of art.” 

“The bloke I was meant to tempt in Florence had been dead for twelve years,” Crowley says after a moment. “Makes you wonder if perhaps our jobs are a bit… irrelevant at this point.” 

“It’s entirely possible,” Aziraphale muses, “And I can't say I’m not looking forward to pursuing my own interests in the interim.”

“A bookshop will take up a good deal of time,” Crowley adds. “Who knows? Maybe we can retire from our actual jobs someday, and you can be a full-time bookseller.” 

The thought sounds  _ lovely. _ Aziraphale says as much. 

“What about you?” the angel then asks, “What would you do as a retired demon?” 

Crowley purses his lips in thought and lays back on the bed, arms behind his head. “Dunno,” he says after taking a moment of consideration, “Not sure I want to commit to anything. I like the idea of being a free man-shaped being with no attachments.” He glances at Aziraphale playfully, enjoying the way the angel glares at him. 

“Well. Maybe  _ one _ attachment,” he amends, reaching out to pull Aziraphale over him. The angel laughs as he adjusts to hover over Crowley on the bed. The demon winds his arms around the angel’s neck. “I do enjoy bothering you, after all. Think I can make a career out of that?” 

“I’ll happily let you bother me as much as you like,” Aziraphale teases, “So long as it means we’re together.”

Crowley studies the angel’s face. So many years have passed; Crowley has been witness to many horrors and beauties across the ages, but through it all, this face- this angel’s loving expression with those sky blue eyes filled with light and kindness- has never changed. Crowley brushes his thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek, “You got yourself a deal, angel.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History Lesson: 
> 
> The Gujin Tushu Jicheng is incredible. I explain it in the chapter, but you should look it up. It’s ten thousand rolls of all kinds of information: history, philosophy, science... it’s larger than the Encyclopedia Brittanica. The sad thing is... there’s not a lot of copies of this collection, and one was destroyed in a fire in the mid 1900’s, which is devastating in it’s own right, but to have Aziraphale lose two collections of knowledge he was involved with to fire... ouch. 
> 
> I wanted to find a reason for Aziraphale to want the bookshop. We know he has one, we know he loves books, we know he hates people taking his books. But I wanted to explore what drove him to want to buy a place and to be known as a bookseller in the first place. I think having him work on the Gujin Tushu Jicheng and getting cozy with Crowley as he does it just makes him realize that *that* is what he wants in life. More than anything else, this simple existence is what he craves.
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Thirteen: the search for a bookshop takes longer than Crowley expects; after an illuminating revelation, Aziraphale and Crowley discuss the philosophy of being right vs. being good. 
> 
> (Any guesses as to what the revelation might be?)


	13. Chapter Thirteen - 1799, The Bookshop, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for a bookshop takes longer than Crowley expects; after an illuminating revelation, Aziraphale and Crowley discuss the philosophy of being right vs. being good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading this story. It means a lot. Love you. 
> 
> The only warning for this chapter is that there is lots of fluff and smut.

Over the centuries, many people have used a variety of words to describe Aziraphale. Some words are more complimentary than others. But if all those people could be gathered together and asked to settle upon one word to  _ best _ describe the angel, the word that would ultimately be settled upon would be  _ particular _ . 

He is particular in his speech. His manner of dress. His food. He has  _ standards, _ as he likes to remind Crowley, and it only stands to reason that those  _ particular standards  _ he holds to in every other facet of his life would apply to the building he intends to call  _ home _ . 

“Angel,” Crowley whines, seventy-three years into the search for the perfect building that meets all of Aziraphale’s exacting standards. “What’s wrong with  _ this _ one?” 

They’re in a posh flat in Mayfair. It’s not right for a bookshop, but it has potential as a place of residence, and Crowley finds himself eyeing it with interest. The angel purses his lips and looks around with a critical eye. “There’s just something…  _ off _ …” he muses. 

“Something has been off with  _ every _ place you’ve looked at,” Crowley complains.

Nearby, the proprietor of the building checks his watch and clears his throat. “If this isn’t to your liking,” he says, a not so subtle cue to encourage the gentlemen to leave, “Perhaps we can have lunch next week to discuss something else? I have a few other properties that will certainly-“ 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale says swiftly, “I think I shall take my search elsewhere. Your time has been most appreciated,” he says with a smile, then motions for Crowley to follow him. 

They stroll down the street, the angel’s shoulders almost slumping in defeat. “Oh, I’ll  _ never _ find the right place,” he laments. 

“There are plenty of right places,” Crowley remarks with a sigh, “ _ You’re _ just picky.” 

”No, I-“ 

“Have standards,” Crowley says with the angel, who huffs and glares in offense. With a roll of his eyes, Crowley snaps his fingers and freezes time. All around them people form lifeless statues, still and unseeing as an angel and demon exist for a moment outside of the mortal realm. 

“I just want it to be perfect,” Aziraphale remarks pitifully as he looks at a young boy frozen mid-sprint across the busy London street. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, tugging Aziraphale into his arms and kissing his temple, “You’ll find something. I know you will. And it  _ will _ be to your exact standards.” 

“I do hope so,” Aziraphale says, relaxing in the demon’s embrace, “I want to find the right place. It’s the place I’m going to call home,” He looks away, worry clouding the blue of his eyes, “Perhaps I’m putting too much stock into a building.”

“It’s just stone,” Crowley agrees, “And we’ve seen plenty of that crumble in our time.” 

“True,” Aziraphale agrees weakly, “It’s the memories made within that make a building warm and homey.” 

“Okay,  _ now _ you’re just being gross on purpose,” Crowley says, pressing another kiss to the angel’s forehead before he releases him and lets the world fall back into motion. “But don’t worry,” he says as people begin to push past them, “We'll find something. You have my word.” 

—

They’d checked Germany, but Aziraphale hadn’t liked anything he found. France was out at the moment. America was not even on the list. China had been a possibility, and had also been promising, but then Aziraphale had gotten orders to monitor some low grade evil in London, and so they’d traipsed over England looking for a suitable place for a bookshop. 

Nothing, in seventy-three years, has sufficed. 

Crowley walks down the streets of Soho, still thinking about the apartment in Mayfair. He’d rather liked it, and though they haven’t found a place for the angel yet, Crowley thinks he might want to pursue the purchase for himself. New and posh, the residence seems fitting for a well-to-do and modern gentleman such as himself, and he makes the decision to contact the seller later that afternoon. Perhaps he’ll try haggling for a better price. And maybe he’ll do it without the use of any demonic miracles. Could be a lot more fun than just miracling things in his favor. Might stir up some low-grade evil he can write off on his next report. It’s an amusing thought, and puts him in a delightful mood as he walks down the street. 

He turns a corner and spots a young girl selling flowers. They’re lovely, shades of pink and red vibrant against the droll and dusty backdrop of London. He saunters up to her, buys her entire basket worth of roses, then gives her four times what they’re worth, telling her with a whisper to treat herself to an apple tart at the nearby bakery. 

Gluttony and sloth, he tells himself. Purely demonic, buying those flowers, he tells himself as he cradles them in his arms. Giving them to the angel is harder to justify, but he’s certain if he needs to think of a reason, he’ll find one. 

He moves across the street, tripping a few overly-pompous gentlemen as he goes, snickering as they curse and fumble about. He reaches the end of the block, waits for a moment, then crosses. The sun hits his eyes, and even with the glasses, stings. He turns his head to the right, and stops short in the middle of the street. 

A corner building, painted a deep maroonish-red, stands before him. Two marble columns flank the front entrance, and above it, encased in cream and brown brick is a large window- the kind that will let in plenty of light and make a certain angel glow when he stands in front of it on early mornings. 

In the window of the entrance, is a  _ for sale _ sign. 

Crowley can’t believe his luck. 

Someone shoves him as they brush past, and Crowley jolts out of his stupor. Crossing the street, he memorizes the address to contact the seller, then races to speak to the gentleman. 

—

It’s perfect. He doesn’t know why it’s perfect, but there’s something in his gut – which he technically doesn’t have – that tells him that this is the one. The downstairs will house shelves upon shelves of books beautifully. The columns within add a flare of ancient architecture that he thinks the Angel will appreciate. Other than the front windows, the rest of the downstairs is draped in darkness. The back room will serve as a nice little cozy nook for the two of them to spend their evenings. There is a small kitchenette, which means the angel can store tea and biscuits and pastries to his heart's content down here, so he doesn’t have to trudge upstairs whenever he gets a craving. 

The flat above is small, cozy, and perfect for a couple of ethereal and occult beings who hardly need amenities the way humans do. It’s the kind of place Crowley has imagined in his mind all these years of searching, and he can’t help but wonder what Aziraphale will think of it. He tells the proprietor that he must discuss things with his…  _ associate,  _ and that he will be back within the hour.

—

“Oh,” gasps Aziraphale. 

Seventy-three years of building shopping has taught Crowley the meaning behind those little  _ oh’s _ . Too high pitched means the angel absolutely hates the place upon first inspecting it. A softer, more baritone  _ oh _ means that the building has potential, but he isn’t quite certain of it yet. A very deep and drawn out  _ oh _ signals that the angel genuinely likes the place, but is quite certain he’s going to find something wrong with it upon inspection. And he always does. 

This  _ oh _ , however, is none of those. It’s soft. More akin to a breath then an exclamation. His hand flutters near his chest and his eyes stare unblinking at the façade of the building. His lips twitch in a little smile and after a moment he turns to glance at Crowley before rushing inside with the sort of glee that is usually saved for a delectable looking treat at the local bakery.

Aziraphale steps inside, and instantly he feels at home. The windows are large and bright, but as the room stretches onward, grows darker, almost as if it’s guarding a secret. The kitchenette is exactly to Aziraphale’s liking. The upstairs flat is intimate, and admittedly too large for his needs, but the angel figures that, in time, he can store even more books in the unused space. ( _ Or,  _ he thinks, though he doesn’t dare speak it aloud,  _ we could use that empty space for more of Crowley’s things.)  _

“It’s perfect,” Aziraphale gushes as he turns to look at Crowley, positively beaming. 

“Then it’s yours,” Crowley says simply, “You figure out where you want to install bookshelves, and I’ll go take care of the paperwork. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s face falls, making Crowley shift uncomfortably. “Oh, my darling, I can’t possibly allow you to do that. This was my project, after all. I mean, of course this will, in part, be your home too, but I would feel terrible making you-“

Crowley steps up and rests his hands on the angel’s shoulders. “Listen,” he says, “I screwed up with the coffeehouse. Let me do this, yeah?”

The mention of the coffeehouse brings a nostalgic smile to the angel’s face. “Oh, I did love that place, though. It’s such a shame it’s gone.” 

“Loved the place?” Crowley scoffs, “Angel, you hate coffee.” 

“Yes, but you did that for  _ me,”  _ Aziraphale replies, lifting his hands to settle on Crowley’s hips, “I may not like coffee, but I enjoyed spending time there while it was in business. Knowing it was for me…” 

Crowley flushes and clears his throat. “Yeah, well. This time I got it right. Much easier to spread evil around the city if you’re distracted with a building full of books.” 

“Yes, that’s precisely your motivation for doing this,” the angel says indulgently, squeezing him softly before releasing him and moving to go back downstairs, “Positively evil of you, darling, tempting me into opening a bookshop. I’m quite put out at how successful this wicked deed of yours is.” 

Grumbling, the demon follows. 

—

Because Aziraphale thrives on annoying Crowley, he insists the shop be renovated in the  _ proper, human _ way. After the paperwork is signed, Aziraphale hires some workers to come in and clean the place out, build custom bookshelves, and move in some furniture to the flat. Crowley watches from the sidelines as Aziraphale bustles about, clearly in his element. 

After a few months, the work is done (thanks to a few sneakily done miracles on the demon’s part) and they’re ready to begin moving in. The flat is simple. There’s a bed and two chairs. A wardrobe houses a few shirts and trousers for the angel, as well as an additional waistcoat. The kitchen is left mostly empty. 

The place is very clearly  _ Aziraphale _ . 

Crowley tells him as such, throwing his arm over the angel’s shoulder. “Very…  _ tartan.”  _

“There isn’t that much tartan!” Aziraphale argues, glancing over at the sofa with a tartan blanket draped over the back. 

“If you say so,” Crowley smirks, earning him a light smack on the arm. 

“Go make yourself useful and begin putting books on the shelf,” the angel huffs as he walks away, grumbling about insufferable demons, much to said demon’s delight. 

Several hours pass in relative silence after that. It’s relaxed, comfortable. Both angel and demon are focused on their respective tasks, and as Aziraphale sorts out his kitchenette with newly purchased items, he can’t help but pause and reflect on how far he’s come. How far  _ they _ have come. He’s gone from a nomad, wandering the earth doing Heaven’s bidding, to having a pace  _ of his own _ . He’s planted himself, here, on earth. He’s established roots, and has something to come back to. A home. 

Turning, Aziraphale sees Crowley still hard at work pulling books out of crates- pausing to examine each one curiously, occasionally smirking as he recognizes a text, and perhaps a memory to go along with it- and then shelving it where it belongs. Something stirs within Aziraphale at the sight, and he feels overwhelmed with love. 

Normally he tries to keep that feeling in check; tries to keep it at a low simmer rather than the rolling boil that threatens to spill over every time Crowely says something clever, or does something sweet, or gives him  _ that  _ look, or… 

Or, well. Crowley simply has to  _ be,  _ for Aziraphale to feel this wave of love threaten to overwhelm him, to make him cry out the words he isn’t supposed to say. 

He pauses; looks at the teacup in his hands, then over to Crowley once more, who is flipping through a book with an amused look on his face. He handles it with reverence, with care. He’s always handled Aziraphale with care, being gentle even when by a demon’s very nature, gentleness should be so foreign as to be unfathomable. But not to Crowley. Crowley is a magnanimous being, full of wickedness but just as equally full of love and kindness and all the things that a demon ought not be. But, paradox that he is, Crowley defies the norms and is simply whatever he wants to be. 

And, wonder of wonders, he wants to be Aziraphale’s. 

And Aziraphale- Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Protector of Earth (which may be a more self-appointed title, but is accurate nonetheless)- wants to be Crowley’s. He may be an angel; he may be an agent of Heaven, but he would gladly give up those titles if it meant he could be Crowley’s. He’s known that from the moment the demon slithered up to him on a wall in Eden and cracked a joke far ahead of its time and proved to Aziraphale that not everything has to be as black and white as he was told it must be. 

Oh,  _ Someone… _ he  _ loves _ Crowley. 

And he can’t hold it back any longer. 

Suddenly, centuries of worry seem so insignificant compared to the weight of love that drapes itself over Aziraphale. Oh, he’ll worry, because that’s what he does. It’s as innate in him as his love of books and tea and his protective streak that burns as bright and hot as anything else (and he takes a moment to wonder if his tendency to worry is born from that protective nature; if the hand-wringing and looking-over-his-shoulder and utter belief that Heaven is somehow Very Aware of what’s happening is tied to need the keep Crowley safe. To keep humans safe.) 

But if Aziraphale knows anything with any amount of certainty (and he knows a great many things with varying amounts of certainty) it’s that he loves Crowley, and quite frankly, he’s tired of keeping such a wonderful sentiment to himself. The more he dwells on it, the more he realizes he doesn’t care that everything he’s done up to this point has been to protect them from Heaven and Hell. He can’t spend his entire existence living in fear. Aziraphale’s ability to love- and specifically his love for Crowley- is such a fundamental part of who he is. Of who  _ they _ are. It’s wrong to keep such a truth left unsaid between them. 

Aziraphale wants Crowley to  _ know _ he’s loved. Damn the risks. What could be more  _ worth _ that risk, than to love, and be loved, in return? 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, his name a nearly breathless gasp on the angel’s tongue. 

The demon doesn’t look up. He’s distracted, flipping through a first edition of the  _ Kama Sutra,  _ and completely oblivious to the inner machinations Aziraphale has just muddled his way through. “Yeah?” He murmurs. 

“Can- can you look at me, please?” 

The demon looks up then, worry creasing his brows as he sees the way Aziraphale stands, tense and rigid, across the room. “What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley asks, already on alert. His eyes dart around, already sussing out if there is a nearby threat. Whether it’s a demonic trait or a serpentine one, it makes the angel’s heart fumble over itself from trying to beat too quickly. 

“I need to tell you something very important,” he says, taking a single step forward, then stops, hand bracing the table beside him, as if he’s some damsel in a cheeky romance novel, growing faint from the overwhelming onslaught of emotion. 

“Okay,” the demon says as he puts the book down on the shelf a bit too carelessly for Aziraphale’s liking. If he weren’t on the edge of such a monumental declaration, he might stop to scold Crowley, reminding him of how delicate that copy is, and that he was given that copy by the author himself, and it won’t do to- 

He cuts that thought short. There are more important things happening. 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, knowing that now he’s begun he can’t back down. He can’t sidestep; can’t change his mind. He’s decided. He decided a long time ago that he and Crowely were in this together, and he can’t continue without breaking down this final barrier between them. Perhaps it shouldn’t be quite as monumental as it feels; they both  _ know _ , after all. 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Bright, beautiful, concerned Crowley- and he can’t contain it any longer. 

“I love you.” 

Golden eyes widen, locking onto the angel’s gaze. He is still for a long moment, almost as if he is trying to suss out whether or not he heard what he thinks he heard. Then he moves. He seems to vanish from the material plane for a moment, and the next he’s in Aziraphale’s space, scant inches away. His hands are on the angel’s face, cupping his cheeks as he presses their foreheads together. Aziraphale’s arms wind around his waist, holding him as close as possible. 

Crowley is breathing hard, and his eyes- open and vulnerable and blessedly not hidden behind dark glasses- stare hard at the angel, as if he’s seeing him for the first time. He looks, funnily enough, hopeful. 

_ “Say it again,”  _ he breathes, as if he can’t believe he would ever hear the words. Aziraphale’s heart breaks, and any hesitation he felt in doing this crumbles to dust at their feet. He loves Crowley. Crowley loves him. 

Everything else is irrelevant. 

“I love you,” he repeats, firmer, louder, certain. “I love you so much, my darling.” 

“What happened to… leaving things unsaid?” Crowley asks, barely more than a breath. He’s staring so intently, so awe-struck, as if he’s never allowed himself to dream of this moment. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says helplessly. “I saw you standing there, and you were so beautiful, and I realized I’ve quite grown tired of not being able to tell you how I feel. I want you to hear it. I want to  _ say _ it.” 

“They can’t hear what’s left unsaid,” Crowley repeats the words Aziraphale had uttered some thousands of years ago. 

“And they can’t hear if they aren’t listening,” Aziraphale counters, “And I have to believe… if they  _ were _ listening… we’d know by now.” 

Crowley lets out a breath, and the angel feels how he trembles under his touch. 

“Demon’s aren’t supposed to love, you know,” Crowley murmurs, studying the angel’s face, thumbs brushing over the soft skin of his cheeks, his lips. “Demonhood 101. I was reminded countless times that I wasn’t an angel anymore, and therefore we didn’t operate as angels. We didn’t have love. Only hatred. We didn’t have compassion; only cruelty. No goodness, only wickedness.” He looks away for a moment, then lifts his serpentine eyes back to Aziraphale, a teary smile on his face.

“And then I met you,” he says softly, “I wasn’t really into the whole demon thing. Mischief seemed fun, but… I remembered love. Or, at least, I think I remembered love. Kinda felt like acid reflux- this burning thing in the back of my throat that didn’t taste good but I could still identify… and…” he pauses, laughs. “And then you told me you gave away that blessed sword. Because the people  _ She _ cast out would benefit from it. You… didn’t judge. You didn’t forsake them because they messed up. You cared for them, when no one else would. And-“ he stops short, a shuddering breath escaping him. 

Aziraphale gives him the time he needs to compose himself. He’s been blindsided by this, and so needs time to process, to get his own words in order. Aziraphale waits. He’s made Crowley wait ages for this moment; the least he can do is allow Crowley the time he needs to form his thoughts and words. 

“And,” Crowley finally manages, “You were kind to  _ me _ . You sheltered me from the rain, and I  _ know  _ you were being polite and would have done that for anyone, but you did it for  _ me _ . A demon. And I realized that even though it shouldn’t have been possible… I loved you. I  _ love _ you. Never stopped. Couldn’t if I tried. Which I’m not.” 

“I wouldn’t have,” Aziraphale says softly, after a moment to process everything Crowley had said, “Sheltered anyone else, that is. Not any angels, at least.” 

Crowley smirks through the tears that are selling up in his eyes. “Even better,” he says. 

Aziraphale smiles. “Wily serpent.” 

“You love me, though,” Crowley teases, and it feels  _ so good _ to say. 

“I do,” Aziraphale agrees, “I love you very much, indeed.” Closing the distance between them, the angel kisses Crowley. He sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth to the angel and flicking his tongue against Aziraphale’s. The kiss deepens, growing more urgent as soft caresses shift into a scraping of teeth against the angel’s lower lip, the demon sucking it between his own to soothe before repeating the process. Aziraphale responds in kind, holding Crowley close, pressing up against him as their mouths move against each other’s, and it’s a perfect sort of dance that leaves them both breathless. 

“I think we’ve done enough work down here, today,” the angel gasps as Crowley moves to press biting kisses down the angel’s jaw and neck. “Take me upstairs.” 

It’s the work of a simple miracle to land them on the bed. Crowley lands on his back, cushioned against an absurd amount of pillows. He pulls the angel over him, his weight settling against the demon like a blanket against the cold. Crowley sighs in contentment, dragging his lips over the angel’s, kissing him lazily. 

“Tell me again,” Crowley murmurs in between kisses. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale sighs. Against his jawline, the demon grins. 

“I love you, too,” Crowley says, possessively pulling the angel closer, their bodies flush. “Have done for a long time. Imagined telling you more times than I can count.” 

“As have I,” Aziraphale admits, adjusting so he can lift one hand to brush his fingers against Crowley’s cheeks. “But we don’t have to imagine anymore.” 

“Oh, I’ll still imagine it,” Crowley growls, cupping the angel’s arse and pressing him closer, sending a shiver down the angel’s spine. Crowley feels a spike of lust permeate the air around them. It shoots an electric current straight to his core, and he knows he can’t hide his arousal even if he wanted to. “Got  _ lots _ of pent up fantasies of you telling me while I sick your cock, or us saying it while I’m being fucked, and one in particular where-“ 

“Don’t be crude,” Aziraphale interrupts, lightly smacking Crowley’s chest. 

“Demon.” 

_ “Darling.” _

Blushing, Crowley glances away, but gentle fingers on his chin guide his gaze back to the angel’s. “Do you want to?” He asks softly. 

“What?” 

“Hear me say it while you fellate me?” 

The demon groans. “Don’t call it that!” 

“That’s what it is!” The angel argues. 

Rolling his eyes, Crowley pushes Aziraphale to the side, then follows, flipping their positions so that he’s straddling the angel, who is also now conveniently naked. 

“Fiend,” Aziraphale breathes, unable to swallow the laugh that escapes him. He feels so stupid and foolish and giddy. 

He feels like he’s in love. 

Crowley leans forward and kisses him, then begins to kiss his way down the angel’s throat, chest, and stomach, before sliding down further to kiss and bite the angel’s thighs. Aziraphale gasps and sighs in turns, hand reaching out to grip the back of Crowley’s head. 

“Oh, darling, please.” 

“Tell me.” 

_ “I love you,” _ he sighs. Crowley trembles as the words wash over him, so new and yet so familiar. He gives the angel what he wants, then, sliding his lips around the angel’s cock. Aziraphale keens. “Oh, my darling one. My love. You feel wonderful!” 

Crowley smirks- or, as best he can while his mouth is preoccupied- and begins to pleasure Aziraphale in earnest, sucking him down to the base, then releasing him to lick and kiss down the shaft before repeating the process. 

Intimacy is nothing new between them. Over time they’ve discovered all the ways two can share and show love without having to speak it, but to give his angel pleasure while drowning in the words he’s so longed to hear- it’s nearly too much. It’s not enough. It’s perfect. 

“Oh, I love you so much-  _ ahhh!-  _ I love you, my darling!” 

Crowley moans as pleasure sweeps him up along with Aziraphale. He’s hard as well, achingly so, and as he uses his mouth on the angel, he reaches down and begins to stroke himself, frantic and without finesse. Aziraphale realizes after a moment and whines. 

“Oh, that won’t do at all, love. Come here.” 

He tugs on Crowley’s hair, and the demon releases him, looking up with lust-filled eyes and lips begging to be kissed. 

“Come here.” 

Crowley obeys, moving to straddle the angel once more. Aziraphale, whose hand has remained in Crowley’s hair, uses the grip to tug him down, where they kiss with abandon, messy and eager, pulling sighs and moans from the other like they’re running out of time. With his other hand, Aziraphale reaches down and begins to stroke them both with a miraculously slick hand. Crowley’s mouth falls open, and Aziraphale swallows down the moan that slips from him. 

“There we are, my darling,” he breathes, his own breath hitching as he strokes them both. “Oh, Crowley, I love you.” 

“I love you, too. So much, angel.” 

“I’m going to tell you every day, from now one,” Aziraphale swears, “I’m tired of not saying it. I’m tired of wanting you to hear it. I love you, and bugger anyone who might try to stand in our way.” 

Crowley groans again at that language, hips twitching as pleasure fills him. “Fuck’s sake, Aziraphale!” 

“I’m sorry I was so afraid,” Aziraphale says, voice breathy and pitchy as he feels his pleasure surge and overtake him, “I’ll never deny us again. You are mine and I am yours-  _ oh!” _

He stiffens, spills over his stomach, and a moment later Crowley follows him over the edge. 

They fall silent at that, save for gasping breaths as they saunter vaguely downward from their mutual high. Crowley collapses over Aziraphale, both of them sticky, emotional messes. 

_ “Fuck,”  _ he groans, pressing a kiss to the angel’s shoulder. “That was terrific.” 

“It was, rather,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“Not the sex,” Crowley clarifies, then amends his statement, “Well. Yes. That was  _ also  _ terrific. Fantastic, even. But, I meant… hearing you say that. I…” he pauses, then admits, “I honestly assumed I’d never hear it said.” 

Aziraphale’s heart  _ shatters.  _

“Oh, Crowley…” 

“Don’t feel bad!” Crowley says urgently, sitting up to look down at Aziraphale. They’re covered in sweat and cum, but neither moves to rid them of the mess just yet. “I don’t say that to make you feel bad. It’s just the reality. And it was one I was content with. No one could overhear what was unsaid, so we left it unsaid. And I was okay with that. But for all my imaginings… for all I fantasized about the day maybe we  _ could _ say it aloud… I never thought it would feel so…” he pauses, looking for an appropriate word. Finally, he settles on one and, with a laugh, admits, “That it would feel so  _ good.”  _

Aziraphale’s hands move, sliding up Crowley’s arms, rubbing his forearms comfortingly. “I wouldn’t say it is so much  _ good _ as it is  _ right,” _ Aziraphale muses after a few minutes. 

Crowley tilts his head, curious. “How do you mean?” 

“Well,  _ good _ is subjective. What is good for one may not be good for another. One may argue if it is  _ good _ to do a certain action, or behave a certain way, whereas, if something is  _ right, _ it is a truth. It is  _ good _ to be with you, yes,” Aziraphale says, “But our superior officers would disagree. However,” and here, Aziraphale leans up, brushing a hand through Crowley’s hair and kissing him softly. “I believe that we are  _ right. _ It is imperative, it is necessary for me to love you. It is not something that can be argued, as it is something innate within my very essence- to love you.” 

Crowley stares at him for a long moment, breathless and teary-eyed, before he squints and sits back. “...Are you using an ethical debate to make the argument for our romance?” 

Aziraphale blushes. “Perhaps.” 

Unable to help himself, Crowley laughs. “I love you, Aziraphale.” 

The angel beams. “I love you, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY SAID IT. ❤️❤️❤️❤️ 
> 
> Next Chapter: Aziraphale experiences some cold feet; Crowley tries to help the only way he knows how; the first visitor to the bookshop brings with him a great deal of trouble.


	14. Chapter Fourteen - 1800, The Bookshop, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale experiences some cold feet; Crowley tries to help the only way he knows how; the first visitor to the bookshop brings with him a great deal of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you’re enjoying the story. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen- 1800,** **The Bookshop, Part II**

  
Crowley stares at the angel, aghast. He’d come by to take Aziraphale out for a celebratory breakfast on the first day of the bookshop being open for business, only to see it locked and closed. Upon entrance- because while the public can not enter this sacred place, Crowley can- he’d discovered Aziraphale experiencing something the humans like to call  _ cold feet.  _

“I thought you  _ wanted  _ to open a book  _ shop _ ,” he stresses the words, slowly, as if he can’t believe they're having this conversation  _ the day the shop is meant to open.  _

“I do,” huffs Aziraphale before he gestures to a large stack of books that covers the desk, the chair, the floor surrounding the desk and chair, and the ones littering the sofa and area surrounding. “Just not  _ these _ .” 

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, which causes his dark glasses to slide down. His eyes are scrunched closed.  _ “Why?” _

“Because they’re  _ mine,”  _ the angel states plainly, as if it’s as simple as that. 

“What about the rest of the books, then?” Crowley asks, gesturing to the rest of the shelves. About a third of them are empty, when just last night they’d been stuffed to the brim. 

“Those are all copies, second editions and later, and newly printed books I acquired from publishers. I do intend to sell books, darling, I just…” he falters and looks at the ones he’d spent all night retrieving, “Not these. They’re special. I’ve kept them for centuries, some of them, and I can’t bear the thought of letting them go to someone who won’t appreciate them as I do.” 

“Well, you don’t sell them, then,” Crowley says simply. “We carry them upstairs and keep them hidden away-“ the look of pain that crosses Aziraphale’s face makes Crowley pause. “Or… not?” He offers helplessly. 

“Only…” the angel sighs, “I don’t want to play favorites. They belong down here, to be admired and appreciated, not hidden away as if this were a museum where one cannot touch anything.” 

“So the humans can  _ touch _ these books, but not  _ purchase  _ them?” 

Aziraphale winces at the idea. “Well…” he utters uncertainly, turning to look at the piles of books. “Touching them  _ too  _ much will ruin them… I can certainly care for them, of that there’s no question, but I’m not sure I want people just walking in here and…  _ touching  _ them without any  _ regard _ of their importance.” 

“Well,” Crowley sighs, utterly confused by this entire conversation, “Let’s just put them back on the shelves, and put signs up that say  _ Don’t Touch; Not For Sale.”  _

The angel glares at him, unimpressed. “We’re not turning my bookshop into a metaphorical fruit tree in the middle of a garden, Crowley.” 

It hadn’t even occurred to him, but now that it has, the demon can’t help but laugh boisterously. “Oh,  _ please _ , angel! We must! Can you imagine the low-grade evil that would create- all these blokes wanting to touch books they aren’t allowed to have and getting  _ so annoyed _ when they can’t-“ he stops and gasps at the  _ possibility _ . “Please, angel!  _ Please!”  _

“Absolutely not.” 

Crowley steps closer, reaching out to catch the angel’s hands in his. “Aziraphale. My angel. My beautiful paramour who is the most amazing creature to ever walk this earth-“ 

Aziraphale scoffs at that.

“-My adorably fussy bookworm whom I love more than anything-“ 

Aziraphale flushes and looks away, trying to hide his smile. “Oh,  _ stop _ that _.” _

“Come on.  _ Please.  _ It’ll be  _ hilarious!”  _

Several long moments pass before the angel gives a long suffering sigh. “ _ Fine, _ you wicked serpent!” 

Crowley very nearly giggles in delight; but seeing how he’s a respectable demon who  _ does not giggle, _ he manages to keep his delight checked to a simple shout of excitement. “You’re  _ absolutely  _ going to regret this, angel,” he says in utter delight as he kisses Aziraphale, then releases him to leave. 

“Where are you going?” The angel asks with a huff, hands on his hips. 

“You’ll see!” He calls over his shoulder, “Be back in a flash!” 

—

While waiting for Crowley, Aziraphale busies himself moving the books back to their respective shelves. He still isn’t certain about Crowley’s plan, but decides that it’s worth a try. They can always reconvene and come up with a better plan to deter customers from buying certain books he doesn’t want gone from his possession. 

As he reshelves, he is struck with the idea to put the books he wants to keep on the highest shelves. They span several feet in the air, after all, and if one cannot reach a book, they cannot purchase it. He pulls out the ladder he’d purchased and climbs, pulling those books down and sticking his treasured ones up high, out of reach. 

He laughs to himself at the absurdity of it all, then steps off the ladder to collect another handful of his treasures to reshelf. The door chimes merrily behind him, and without turning, Aziraphale remakes, “Back already?” 

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

It’s only because the angel has spent thousands of years preparing for this exact moment that he doesn’t react. He takes a moment to still himself, then places the books on the shelf and turns, a large, false smile plastered on his face. 

“Gabriel!” He exclaims, sounding false to his own ears, “This is  _ quite  _ the surprise!” 

Gabriel gives a terse half smile, the kind that is polite but insincere. He glances around the building. “So, what’s all this?” 

Aziraphale brushes his hands free of dust, and nervously adjusts his suit jacket. “It’s, um… a bookshop,” he says, trying to remain confident, and failing spectacularly. “Most of my assignments have been based in London of late, so I thought it might help to have an establishment for humans to… visit. Allows them to find me, and allows me to give those who need it… continued… guidance.” 

The explanation sounds weak to his own ears. But Gabriel’s expression is a little more pleased. “Excellent!” He says, clapping his hands together. “Good initiative, Aziraphale. That’s what we like to see!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinks, genuinely shocked that Gabriel hasn’t seen through his poor lie. Though, he supposes, angels aren’t supposed to be able to lie. (And demons aren’t supposed to fall in love. Seems they’re good at doing what they shouldn’t.) “Yes… thank you.” 

“Well, be sure to write up a report about this endeavor, and make sure it doesn’t interfere with any other assignments,” Gabriel says as he picks up a book. It’s one Aziraphale intends not to sell, and he uses a great deal of restraint to keep from snatching the book out of Gabriel’s careless grip. “What is this?” 

The angel stares. “It’s… a book?” 

Gabriel turns it in his hand, inspecting it curiously. “Huh. Strange. How do these books help defeat the enemy?”

“Well…” Aziraphale stammers, genuinely stumped at how Gabriel could be so ignorant of something so fundamentally human. “Books are one of many ways in which the Almighty’s will is shared with humans. There are other books, of course. The one you’re holding is a book of philosophy on the merits of-“ 

Gabriel tosses the book back on the table, causing Aziraphale to wince. 

“Well. I suppose if it helps you in your work,” he says, clearly uninterested. “Which, I’m meant to congratulate you, by the way. You haven’t gone unnoticed, upstairs.” 

Aziraphale feels the color leave his face. Though he needs neither a heart nor lungs, he feels his heart drop to his stomach (and he isn’t sure if it’s metaphorical or literal, but either way it’s unpleasant) and his lungs seem to wrap around themselves and constrict, leaving him unable to breathe. “O-oh?” 

“All good things,” Gabriel says assuringly, “Very well done; especially thwarting that  _ wretched _ demon Crowley. Has he noticed your interference?” 

Hearing the way Gabriel spits out Crowley’s name leaves the angel livid. As if he were nothing but a pebble in one’s shoe; an annoyance to be cast aside. The angel’s fist clenches, and he hastily clasps his hands behind his back, plastering on another fake grin. “He suspects nothing.” 

“Excellent!” Gabriel says, clearly pleased. “Probably too stupid to notice you, at any rate. Those demons aren’t very clever, are they?” He laughs merrily, as if he’d just told a remarkably funny joke, and the angel offers a half-hearted chuckle merely to save face. 

“Not at all,” he says dryly. _He’s not clever; he’s brilliant. And kind and loving…_ _so much more than any of you._

Gabriel gives one more cursory glance around the shop, then claps his hands together. “Well! Everything seems under control here, so I’ll let you get back to it,” Gabriel steps forward and gives Aziraphale a pat on the back that’s just on the verge of too hard. Aziraphale manages not to lurch forward- heels digging into the ground- and nods. 

“Very good,” Aziraphale manages, then hastily adds, “Perhaps if you can tell me when to next expect you. I can have some tea ready. Or perhaps some biscuits, if you like. It feels very inhospitable to not offer you anything, but you caught me unprepared, I’m afraid.” 

Gabriel’s face scrunches in distaste. “I do not sully my body with human  _ substances,”  _ he says, “And as for another visit, no offense to you or anything, Aziraphale, but I don’t plan to come back here until the end, if I can help it.”

Aziraphale sways. “The… end?” 

“Armageddon,” Gabriel says, as if it should be obvious, “It’s not ready- my sources indicate it won’t be for a while yet, but even still. It’s-“ he looks around, both at the shop and the world in which it exists, frowning, “It’s  _ unpleasant _ here. Not a fan, if I’m honest. It’s why I’m glad you’re happy with your assignment down here,” he says with a laugh, “I wouldn’t want to be stuck here. But you’ve managed admirably! Though, hopefully the next time you see me, we’ll be bringing you home. I’m sure you’ll be happy to get off this terrible ball of mud.” 

The same bile that once rose in his throat at the sight of an innocent man suffering on a cross in the name of the Divine Plan rises now. Aziraphale swallows thickly. “Can’t…. can’t wait,” he agrees weakly. Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Well, keep up the good work,” he says once more, as he turns to leave. He doubles back a moment later, “Oh, small warning: watch the miracles,” he says with that still overly polite tone, “You’re not in trouble, but some have been a bit frivolous of late. But don’t worry,” he laughs again, a boisterous sort of laugh that makes Aziraphale’s ears pop, “It happens to the best of us. Anyway, good job. Bye now!” And with that, a bright flash overtakes the room, a swirl of wind sweeps by, causing the bell that rests over the door to ring. When all settles, Gabriel is gone. 

Aziraphale sinks to the floor and struggles to breathe. 

—

“I come bearing gifts!” Crowley calls as he enters the bookshop, arms loaded with flowers, chocolates, and a bag of stationary supplies. He looks around, good cheer quickly fading when Aziraphale doesn’t immediately come out to greet him. He takes a moment to glance about, seeing the beginnings of what was Aziraphale reshelving books. Frowning, Crowley moves inward, toward the kitchenette where he drops his goods onto the table, then moves about to find the angel. 

He peeks into the back room, and spots Aziraphale curled up on the couch, staring blankly ahead. There’s tear stains on his cheeks, though he seems calm now. His gaze shifts to where Crowley stands, and he gasps. 

“Hey-“ Crowley says, taking a cautious step forward. “What’s wrong? Is it the books? We can figure it out-“ 

“Gabriel was here.” 

The rest of Crowley’s sentence leaves him. All words leave him. All coherent thought flees his mind, until the only thing he can think is a resounding repetition of  _ no, no, no, no, no.  _ He stares at Aziraphale, then practically collapses on the couch beside the angel.  _ It’s not fair,  _ he thinks.  _ Everything we’ve worked for… everything we’ve gained… _

He looks up. Looks at Aziraphale. The angel is shockingly calm. Crowley doesn’t understand how he can be so calm, unless… 

Unless he’s preparing himself for the moment he ends things between them. 

It makes sense. This is Aziraphale’s worst fear come true, and suddenly Crowley feels the ground beneath his feet metaphorically crumble, and he scrambles for something to keep them from falling. Reaching out, he grabs Aziraphale’s hand. “We’ll think of something,” Crowley says urgently, “We’ll be more careful- more than we’ve ever been. I won’t come around as much. I’ll- I can’t _lose this,_ angel-“ 

He’s cut off by the softest, gentlest of kisses and, as if by work of a miracle, all the panic drains from him, like poison sucked from a wound. “It’s alright, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly after he pulls back. His free hand comes to rest over Crowley’s, and the demon takes a steadying breath, and looks at Aziraphale. Even though his face is stripped with tears, Crowley now realizes that the look in the angel’s eyes is not one of fear or resignation, but one of strained relief.

“They don’t know,” Aziraphale says as a small smile forces its way onto his lips. “They know absolutely  _ nothing _ about the two of us. Crowley… we’re safe.” 

Crowley blinks, and feels for a moment as if all the air has been violently sucked out of his lungs. He’s grateful for the fact that he doesn’t need to breathe, else he worries he may faint. He may do so, anyway. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, stunned.

A delirious sort of laugh escapes the Angel. Apparently he’s having trouble processing things, too. 

“He stopped by to check on things,” Aziraphale explains, “The two of you barely missed each other, really, for which I’m  _ quite  _ grateful. He inquired after the purpose of the book shop, was satisfied with my answer, said some truly horrible things about you-“ he pauses, frowns. “Which I for one took great offense to. I mean,  _ really, _ it was quite uncalled for; I don’t care if we’re meant to be hereditary enemies, the way he spoke about you was-“ 

“Angel,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers to recapture Aziraphale’s attention, “Focus.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale mutters as he flushes prettily, “Right. Well. He, uh, just wanted to see how things were. Seemed pleased with my report. But then, upon my inquiry as to when he planned to return for a subsequent check in, he indicated that he did not intend to visit again until The End.” He makes a face at that. “And  _ that, _ my love, is a subject we will  _ have _ to discuss much later in detail, but for the moment I’m content to simply focus on the fact that Gabriel has no idea about the nature of our relationship, let alone that that there even is one!” He wiggles in that way he does when utterly pleased, and the smile on his lips goes from wide and ridiculous to more relaxed, as if he’s easing into the relief of their situation. 

Crowley feels himself relaxing as well. “We’re safe,” he repeats, trying out the words, trying out the mindset. 

“I believe so,” Aziraphale nods, “And I confess, I feel rather foolish, spending all that time worrying that we were but a moment away from discovery, but Gabriel didn’t even know what a book was! He’s utterly clueless! Ignorant! My darling, Heaven is so far removed from everything going on down here that I have no choice but to conclude that we are well and truly  _ safe.”  _

“You don’t think it’s a trap?” Crowley asks, simply because he wants to ensure Aziraphale has considered every possibility before he gives into the mindless joy he’s trying to keep at bay. 

“Neither of our head offices are clever enough, nor do they understand human nuisance, to pretend they don’t know,” Aziraphale replies, “If Gabriel knew, he would have said.” 

Crowley sits back against the couch, boneless and at a complete loss for words. He can’t believe it. He has to believe it. He’s believed it for so long- that they’d be okay, in the end- that now that it’s a truth, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

So he cries. 

It’s uncontrollable and freeing and perhaps a bit hysterical, but it feels wonderful. 

Aziraphale lets him process; simply sits beside him as Crowley falls apart and pieces himself back together, and when he’s calmed down, breathless and red-faced, he looks at Aziraphale, who is watching him with absolute understanding. 

“Now you know why I look like I did when you walked in.” 

Unable to help himself, a laugh escapes.  _ “Fuck,” _ he breathes, “I- I don’t know what to do with myself,” he confesses, “I’m torn between tackling you right here or- or crying some more or grabbing a bottle and getting gloriously drunk… what do we do as our first action as lovers who are free to actually be together?!” 

“Well, we  _ should _ probably have a long discussion about that Armageddon remark Gabriel made,” Aziraphale says seriously, “I won’t pretend I’m not horribly worried about  _ that.”  _

“He said himself- we have a while,” Crowley remarks, “Let's worry about that later. For the moment, I just want to relish the fact that-“ 

“What? You were right?” Aziraphale asks teasingly. 

Crowley stops short. Then smirks. “Normally, yes, I’d rub that in mercilessly. But right now I don’t care who was right or who was wrong. All that matters is that  _ we,”  _ he says, sliding closer to Aziraphale and taking him into his arms, “Are safe. And that calls for a celebration.” 

At that he releases Aziraphale, standing and moving to where he’d placed his purchases. He returns a moment later, items in hand, holding out the flowers first. “For you,” he says, “To congratulate you on opening a bookshop.” 

The angel takes the bouquet, bringing them to his nose to smell the fresh scent. Crowley then holds out the chocolates, “To console your after an awkward encounter with your boss.” 

The angel smiles and accepts the chocolates with a gleam in his eye. 

“And last,” Crowley says, sitting down beside the angel, leaving as little space between them as possible, “Quality paper and ink to implement my reign of low-grade evil all over this shop.” 

Aziraphale laughs outright at that. It feels good, to know that, for now, they’re safe. But Armageddon is something Aziraphale now feels like a vice growing ever tighter around his neck, and while he knows he and Crowley certainly have time, he fears it won’t be as much as he’d like. No amount of time will ever be enough. But as he looks at Crowley, who is already moving to work on his  _ don’t touch _ signs, Aziraphale decides that those worries will simply have to wait. 

  
For now, he has a shop to open, and a demon to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can’t convince me that Aziraphale decided to open a bookshop without ever really taking into consideration that he would have to *sell* the books contained within. I have to believe that thought didn’t occur until someone tried to actually buy a book and he just looks at them horribly offended. 
> 
> (Also, fucking Gabriel...) 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Fifteen: the Hundred Guineas Gentlemen’s Club :-D


	15. Chapter Fifteen - 1862, The Hudred Guineas Club, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the club turns into something far more than either Aziraphale or Crowley expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading this story. I hope you're enjoying it. I'm hoping to get the last chapter finished this week (creative block has hit hard with trying to end it satisfactorily) and once that's done I'll be updating a little more frequently. 
> 
> There are some mentions of period-typical homophobia in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen - 1862, The Hundred Guineas Club, Part I**

Crowley enters the bookshop, a familiar and comforting oasis in the midst of an ever-changing world, pleased to see there are no customers browsing the increasingly disorganized shelves. In the back, he can hear the tale-tell sounds of the angel bustling about, and a smile forces its way onto Crowley’s face. No one is around to see, so he lets it rest there for an undemonic moment, enjoying the gentle comfort of something so benign and simple as just  _ knowing _ Aziraphale is nearby. 

He knows a lot more, now. A great deal more than he ever imagined he might know. He knows the angel loves him. Has heard it whispered from soft lips in moments of great anguish and moments of great passion. He has felt those words breathed into his skin as they make love- he doesn’t call it that out loud, but deep in his heart it can be described as nothing else. He has seen those words put to action. Comfort, gifts, lingering glances back when glances were the greatest risk they would take. 

Crowley takes another step, cane thumping against the hardwood floor. “Aziraphale?” 

The angel appears, a letter in hand and round spectacles perched on his nose. They’re positively ridiculous, and have been since he first purchased them in 1822. He insists on wearing them; finds them stylish, even. Crowley is inclined to argue (and has in fact argued, several times) but he now has to admit they’re rather endearing. 

Everything about Aziraphale is endearing. 

“Good afternoon, my dear,” Aziraphale says as he greets Crowley, stepping close for a brief moment to press his lips to the demon’s then steps away and holds out the letter. “I received a letter from Mr. Clarke. He’s invited us to the  _ Guineas _ , tonight.” 

“Has he?” Crowley remarks as he takes the letter from Aziraphale’s outstretched hand, reading the letter for himself. It is nothing more than a simple invitation for  _ Mr.’s Crowley and Fell to join me this evening at eight o’clock sharp at our usual place. It feels as if I haven’t seen you for a century!” _

“Well, if Mr. Clarke has invited us, we should drop everything I had planned for us and make certain to go,” Crowley says with a touch of sarcasm, only because he knows it will annoy Aziraphale.” 

True to form, the angel huffs and puts his hands on his hips. “Plans?” He challenges, “I don’t recall us having any plans for this evening. In fact, I distinctly recall you lamenting that we hadn’t done anything in  _ ages,  _ just last night!” 

Crowley smirks and reaches out to pull Aziraphale to him. “I  _ did _ say that, didn’t I? Well, angel, if you want to go to the  _ Guineas  _ tonight, then by all means, let’s go.” 

“I should go without you,” Aziraphale grumbles, but there’s no venom in his words. Instead he leans closer and kisses Crowley, dropping all pretense of being put out. “But enough of that, my darling. How has your day been?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley shrugs as he moves, using the hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back to guide him toward the back room, “Causing mischief and mayhem everywhere I go. I stopped by your tailor to check on your new coat, because I’m  _ such _ a gentleman, by the way.” 

_ “And,” _ Azirapahle prompts, knowingly. 

“And changed the measurements on several work orders. No one’s suits are going to fit right. It’ll be a  _ mess _ to straighten up!” He grins, clearly proud of himself, and the angel has no choice but to smile. 

“Positively evil, my dear. Dastardly. It’s a shame I wasn’t there to thwart you,” he says dryly.

“Here now, though,” Crowley says simply, “And I’ve just confessed my sins. You could punish me, if you so wish.” 

Aziraphale grins, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist, drawing him in. “I could,” he agrees softly, pressing a chaste kiss to Crowley’s lips, “And I shall.” With that he lets go, and moves away from the demon entirely. 

Crowley sputters for a moment, feeling as if he’s been doused in cold water. “Wha-  _ angel!”  _

“What, darling?” Aziraphale says as he moves toward the stairs. 

“What are you doing?!”

Aziraphale turns to face the demon. “Going to change for tonight. We’ve not been out in an age, and I am ever so looking forward to seeing our friends again.” He resumes climbing the stairs, “You’d best change too, my dear! If you need to run to the Mayfair flat for anything, make sure to lock up behind you as you go!” 

The demon glares at the angel’s retreating figure, then does exactly as he’s told. 

__

The Hundred Guineas Club is- according to public opinion- an esteemed gentlemen’s club where the who’s who of society frequents. It’s believed to be a place of repute and elegance- and it is those things, certainly. Aziraphale is too posh a gentleman to patronize a seedy place of ill-repute. But the club is more than what meets the eye. It’s a place for gentlemen to dance, drink, and love one another without the scornful eye of society glaring them down. 

It’s where Aziraphale met Mr. Clarke, one evening while Crowley had been away to Spain for some business. The angel loves it here, loves the companionship and camaraderie he feels with these men. He enjoys the food and wine, the conversation. How they all seem to understand one another. 

The dancing. 

Crowley had laughed himself silly when Aziraphale had informed him he’d learned a stylish dance known as the gavotte. 

“Angels don’t dance,” Crowley reminded him after catching his breath. “If I remember anything about Heaven, it’s that angels don’t dance.” 

“Well, I  _ do,” _ Aziraphale had said, offended. 

Crowley had resorted to much groveling after that, and now reluctantly concedes that one angel in particular does dance, and he does it quite well. 

They enter the club, and the smell of cigar smoke, fine wine, and sex fills the air. Music swells from one of the other rooms, a soft and sweet melody more appropriate for conversation than dancing. Laughter can be heard, and men pass by, their eyes bright and smiles genuine. This place is a haven, a sanctuary, and Aziraphale smiles as he steps inside, feeling oddly more at home here than nearly anywhere else in the world. 

They then enter the parlour, and after a brief look around spot their friends at the bar. Joining them, They exchange greetings, Clarke pressing a kiss to both the angel’s cheeks, and they order. 

“It’s been too long since we’ve seen you here,” Clarke says, arm wrapped around Sebastian's waist, “Six months, at least.” 

“Business has kept us both busy, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, “Though I suppose I can’t complain. I do enjoy my work.” 

“At least one of us does,” Clarke laughs, “I must say if I could quit now, I would.” 

“What nonsense,” Sebastain mutters beside him, “You enjoy all the pomp and circumstance that goes with your position, don’t lie.” 

Clarke rolls his eyes. “Yes, but I also despise my colleagues. I’d much rather be here.” 

“Well, with your excellent taste in wine, perhaps you can take over as barkeep,” Crowley remarks with a playful look. The man in question, a plump, middle aged man with whom Crowley is on good terms, makes a rude gesture toward him, causing the demon to laugh. “No one can replace you, Georgiana,” he says affectionately, to the barkeep, who tells Crowley to fuck off, but not before refilling his glass. 

The group moves away from the bar to one of the corner tables to drink and talk. All around them, various activities are taking place, some more innocent than others. Dancing can be heard in the other room, and a few feet away on the couch in the corner, two men are locked in an amorous embrace, kissing passionately, lost in their own world. Clarke and Sebastain sit close together, the former once more throwing his arm around the latter, keeping him close. 

Aziraphale watches them with pride, so glad that these two men found each other. He recalls meeting Clarke here during his first visit. The man had been so forlorn, so desperate for someone to talk to, someone to love, that he’d mistaken Azirapahale’s kindness for flirtation, and had attempted to kiss him. The angel had felt so bad for having to deny the poor man, he’d made it his sole mission to find Clarke someone that would make him happy. Sebastain had come into the picture not long after, and Aziraphale merely had to make introductions before stepping back and allowing things to progress naturally. They’re polar opposites, in many ways: Sebastian is a scholarly professor, intellectual, reserved, full of dry wit and a love of mathematics. Clarke is a jovial sort of man, almost foppish. A politician by trade, he’s an impulsive idealist who longs to right the wrongs of the world, and often gets caught up in revolutionary thoughts. Sebastian is a perfect counterpart to him, from his more simplistic style to his ability to reign Clarke in from his more wild ideas. They are frequently seen together outside the club, Sebastian frequently attending the meetings Clarke holds to rally interest in the next Great Cause. 

If he’s honest, Aziraphale is quite pleased with how perfect they are for one another. It’s a bittersweet feeling, however, given that they can only really enjoy their romance behind the closed doors of the Guineas. Watching them thoughtfully, the angel can’t help but glance over at Crowley, grateful for the love he and the demon have cultivated over these thousands of years. 

As they chat and enjoy their wine, Clarke speaks of his frustration with Parliament and trying to accomplish anything meaningful. Sebastian goes on about his students at the university, reveling in how much he enjoys teaching. They discuss their joint effort that, if successful, will allow women into universities, but explain that their efforts are not going well. Aziraphale reaches out and gently pats Clarke’s hand. 

“You’re both doing remarkable work,” he insists, “I’m positive that your efforts will not be in vain.” His touch is warm with a miracle, a blessing that will make his words that much more convincing at the next meeting. Of course Aziraphale will be in attendance too, but he can’t resist. Beside him, Crowley feels a shimmer of blessing, and smirks into his wine glass. He knows later the angel will ask him to use his demonic wiles to convince some of the holdouts to change their mind.  _ It’ll cause infighting, of which I’m certain your side will approve,  _ he can almost hear Aziraphale say, with that adorable pout that always leaves Crowley helpless. 

“I hope you’re right,” Clarke sighs and drains his glass. Sebastian presses a kiss to his cheek, then stands to get them a refill. 

Their conversation carries on for a while longer, and Aziraphale can’t help but revel in how delightful it feels to simply sit with two human men and talk about the world, while his hand is openly clasped in Crowley’s. It’s such a simple thing, but this place brings out a boldness in Aziraphale, and he can’t help but think that the world would be much better if it would be more like the Hundred Guineas Club. 

Around them, the men who frequent this club no doubt feel the same. Some express it more openly and without any reservation, but the angel doesn’t begrudge them that. It’s a wonderful thing, to feel free to be true to oneself, even if it can only be done in the confines of a gilded cage. 

As Crowley talks to Sebastian about his most recent travels to Italy, Aziraphale listens with rapt attention. The way the demon weaves words together- true or not- has always mesmerized the angel. Though he supposes the Tempter of Eden _ must  _ be good with words. Not always around the angel; but those blustering moments where Crowley seems at a loss are just as endearing. Perhaps more so, since they’re only ever for him. 

Suddenly however, the angel senses the distinct floral essence of holiness, and stiffens. Looking up, he half expects to see an angel staring after him, but all he sees is a priest walking through the hallway. 

His gaze catches the others’ attention, and they all look in turn. 

“Ah,” Clarke says with ease, “Father Johns.” 

“What is a priest doing here,” Aziraphale asks quietly. In the numerous times he’s been here, both with and without Crowley, he’s never seen a priest before. He’s well aware many men here often dress up in various costumes and other clothing- he’s seen a few religious robes being put to… imaginative use… but this is the first time he’s seen a true man of the cloth enter the premises. 

“Must be here for the weddings,” Clarke remarks knowingly. 

“Weddings?” Aziraphale asks, curiosity peaked. “I didn’t think- I mean- how can that be binding for two men?” 

“It isn’t,” Sebastian says with a sigh, “It’s more… symbolic. Men can’t marry out there, but here? We can. It doesn’t mean much, but it’s something. And a lot of the gents here take comfort in it, even if it’s a farce.”

“Farce or not,” Clarke says suddenly, slapping the table and turning to Sebastian, “We should do it, too! He’s here. It’ll be fun! What do you think?” 

Sebastian gives Clarke a dry look. “I think, after that  _ awful _ proposal, you might want to try again.” 

“Not very romantic,” Crowley adds on, teasing, “Didn’t even get on one knee. If angel here proposed to me like that I’d say no, too.” 

Aziraphale gasps and lightly smacks Crowley’s arm. Clarke huffs out a laugh, “Fine, fine. May I try again?” He asks Sebastian. 

“You may.” 

Taking a moment to become serious, Clarke slips out of his chair onto one knee, and takes Sebastain’s hand. “Seb,” he says softly, “Two years ago I stood in a church, before God and people I didn’t care for, and made a promise that my heart was incapable of keeping. But here, in front of our friends, where God isn’t listening, I promise myself to you, and while the law may not recognize our union, I know that my heart will. Will you marry me?” 

Sebastian, who is normally more level headed and reserved, lets out a tearful laugh. “Yes!” 

Clarke surged forward and kisses him. Then he turns to Aziraphale and Crowley. “Will you come bear witness?” 

Aziraphale wipes away a tear and looks at Crowley, who to the untrained eye seems unmoved. Aziraphale knows better. 

“‘Course,” the demon grunts.

It’s not a traditional wedding, by any means. The couples are ushered in groups of two, plus any who want to witness the union of their friends. The priest, a younger looking man compared to the men who have come for his services, leads the brief and almost impersonal ceremony. Vows are repeated, kisses shared, and sometimes, rings exchanged. 

Through the work of a miracle, Aziraphale produces two rings to gift to Clarke and Sebastian, waving away their questions and telling them not to worry about where they came from. Clarke takes them happily, and they enter the room where the marriages are to take place. Crowley and Aziraphale watch as their friends marry, spontaneously and without reservation. It’s simple and chaotic and romantic but beautiful, and Aziraphale is nearly overwhelmed by how much love he feels in this place. It’s one of the many things he loves about the Hundred Guineas Club: the place is always drenched in love. 

Clarke and Sebastian exit the room, hands clasped and rings on their fingers. They each wear the band on their right ring finger, as Clarke’s left already has a wedding band, and Sebastian opts to match his husband. 

Aziraphale hugs them both, congratulating them on their nuptials. It may have no standing outside these walls, but the angel knows that in their hearts nothing will ever separate them. 

“It doesn’t change anything, really,” Sebastian says, ever the pragmatic one, “But it does feel good.” 

“It changes  _ plenty,” _ Clarke insists, ever the optimist, pulling Sebastian to him, “You’re my husband now. Our friends saw. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.” 

Sebastian smiles softly, and they share a kiss. “I can think of worse fates.” 

While other couples make way to rooms, some private, some not, to celebrate their wedding nights, Clarke and Sebastian return to the bar, where Crowley insists on treating them to the most expensive and delectable wine the club has to offer. They toast the couple, then after an hour of laughter and drinking, Clarke gives Sebastian a look, and Crowley feels a swell of lust permeate the air, and takes that as their cue to leave. 

Crowley nudges Aziraphale with his foot, giving him a pointed look behind his glasses. The angel understands, and they make their excuses. Before leaving, Aziraphale miracles a private room available for them, with another bottle of the lovely wine Crowley had selected, as well as a tray of cheese, bread, and fruit. They bid their friends farewell, then begin the walk home. 

—-

On the walk home, Aziraphale is unusually quiet. Crowley knows from experience that upon leaving the club, the angel is almost always elated upon leaving, overflowing with how much love radiates from the place. There’s no shortage of lust either, but it doesn’t affect Crowley the way Aziraphale is affected. Tonight however the angel is silent, contemplative. Crowley knows better than to ask; the angel will open up when he’s ready. 

They arrive at the bookshop and Aziraphale wordlessly invites Crowley inside through a gesture of holding open the front door. Crowley usually stays here; most nights in fact, but the angel always insists on ensuring Crowley knows he’s welcome. So much so that Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has internalized Crowley’s rejection from Heaven far more than he has. It stings, certainly, recalling the Fall. But he’s long since come to terms with it, especially as he’s certain he’d have never met Aziraphale otherwise. He thinks he got the better end of that deal, really. 

Once inside, Aziraphale busies himself with fetching some wine. Crowley settles on the sofa and kicks his feet up on the little table across from him and waits. Eventually the angel appears with two bottles- they’re not even bothering with glasses it seems, and wordlessly hands one to Crowley. Taking a seat on the chair opposite the demon, he offers him a smile that Crowley can see is strained, and takes a long drink. 

Half an hour passes in relative silence. Crowley studies the angel, watches how he seems so absorbed in his own thoughts that he practically curls in on himself. He looks worried, almost, fretful in that way that means he’s thinking of something great, like their roles in this world. 

Just as Crowley’s patience runs thin and he’s one angelic sigh away from demanding the angel just spit it out, already, Aziraphale looks up, eyes glassy and wide with worry and curiosity. 

“What did you think of that?” 

“Gonna have to be a bit more specific there, angel.” 

Aziraphale seems to realize Crowley isn’t privy to the one-sided conversation he’s been having for the past half-hour and flushes prettily. “Oh, right. Apologizes, my dear. I mean, what do you think about what Clarke said, earlier.” 

Crowley shrugs, “Thought that proposal was disgustingly romantic. I’m sure you are just fit to burst from all the love I imagine was oozing between them. Even I could see it, and I can’t sense love.” 

The angel smiles softly at the mention of the intensity of love from earlier. “Oh, yes, that was remarkable,” he sighs wistfully, then seems to remember what it is that’s troubling him. His smile fades. “Only, I more meant what he said about…” he pauses, then points upward, “About  _ Her,”  _ he whispers. 

Crowley blinks. He has no idea what Aziraphale means. He doesn’t recall any grand statements for or against the Almighty. Had it been the latter, he’s certain he would have remembered- gleefully, in fact- but after all the wine and worrying for his angel, he can’t seem to recall any particular comment. 

“What did he say?” 

Aziraphale huffs, then places his wine bottle on the table, taking the opportunity to nudge Crowley’s feet off the table with a pointed look. 

“He said that when he married Elizabeth, he stood in a church, before God and people he didn’t care for and made a promise he was able to actually keep. But there, in the club, where God wasn’t listening, he wanted to make the commitment, because he knew this time he  _ could _ . And, well, I suppose I wonder…” 

Crowley sits forward, intrigued. Pulling off his glasses, he tosses them onto the table next to the angel’s bottle. He knows Aziraphale has an easier time talking to him without the barrier, so he removes it to give the angel some sense of calm. “Wonder what, Aziraphale?” 

He wrings his hands together nervously, then all at once stops and looks up with a sharp resolve to say what’s on his mind. “I wonder if he’s right.” 

“How do you mean?” 

The angel considers for a moment. “I suppose I mean… we were in a gentlemen’s club. Where men hide away to love each other because the laws of man have made it illegal.” He takes a moment to roll his eyes, then continues, “But the love I felt was… it was so pure, Crowley. So genuine and overwhelming and… do you think She would turn a deaf ear to that sort of  _ goodness?” _

Of all the things to take away from the evening, Crowley hadn't expected  _ that.  _ He sits back against the seat of the couch, stumped to silence. He now wishes he hadn’t taken off his glasses so he could stare at the angel in shocked silence for a few moments while gathering his thoughts. He’s too sober for this, he decides ultimately, and takes a large swig of wine. It’s not meant to be wasted as such, but Crowley needs the alcohol in his system if he’s going to think. And he can’t do that while he’s sober, and with the angel staring at him nervously. 

After a few minutes of silence- if the angel gets over an hour of quiet contemplation, he’s allowed a few minutes, too- he finally reaches a half-formed conclusion. 

“I think,” he says at last, slurring just a little, “One of two things: One, She  _ isn’t  _ listening, or two… She is, but She doesn’t  _ care.” _

That answer seems to be exactly what Aziraphale wants to hear, if the way his expression of worry melts into something more relaxed. He sits for a moment, thinking about Crowley’s words, then stands and moves to sit beside Crowley on the couch. The demon instantly slithers closer, always glad to be near the angel, and watches silently as Aziraphale takes Crowley’s left hand in his, holding it with one hand and idly tracing over his long, thin fingers with the other. 

His touch slides down Crowley’s ring finger once, twice, several more times than any of the others, and just as Crowley seems to become suspicious of  _ why _ Aziraphale had posed such a question, the angel speaks. 

“So, by that logic,” he begins thoughtfully, focused on Crowley’s hand, “If one were to make a vow to someone, away from a holy place, without witnesses and without invoking Her name… you think She won’t mind?” 

The feeling of Aziraphale caressing his finger is far too distracting for the type of conversation he’s trying to have, but Crowley manages to answer anyway. “I guess so long as you leave Her out of it… why  _ should  _ She care?” 

Aziraphale nods in agreement, taking apart the logic and piecing it back after thorough examination. From the way he continues to caress Crowley’s hand, the demon is confident he is content with that answer. 

“Well then,” Aziraphale murmurs, lifting Crowley’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it, “With that in mind… would you- and I know this is quite possibly very silly and so very human, but I rather like the idea, actually, and have done for some time. But would you ever consider  _ us _ making such a promise to one another? Officially?” 

Crowley’s brows lift comically high. Despite all efforts to the contrary, a grin spreads across his lips, and a laugh slips from him as he clutches their already joined hands with his free one. 

“Angel,” he begins, feeling gleeful and stupid and happy? “Are you proposing  _ marriage _ to me?” 

Aziraphale clears his throat and looks away shyly. “Ah, well. I suppose I am, yes. Is that terribly silly of me? We can forget this whole conversation if you wish-“ 

Crowley sweeps in, and kisses him soundly. A startled sound escapes the angel, but he melts into the kiss, sighing as Crowley’s lips press against his, tongue flicking against the angel’s lips as he deepens the kiss, drawing a moan from the angel. Aziraphale releases Crowley’s hands and instead slides them around the demon’s waist, tugging him closer as he responds to the kiss, opening his mouth for Crowley who wastes no time pressing in, groaning as Aziraphale matches his passion in equal measure. After a few moments, Crowley shifts, swinging one leg over the angel to straddle his waist. 

Crowley feels Aziraphale wrap one arm around his waist to pull him closer, while the other hand lifts to curl into his hair. Crowley groans into the kiss, shifting closer against Aziraphale. He can feel, as normal, that the angel hasn’t made an Effort, but his own is very much present. He has half a mind to slide off Aziraphale, push aside his desire to actually answer the question posed to him, but it seems Aziraphale both wants an answer  _ and _ wants to keep him close. 

“Well?” He asks impatiently as he presses kisses along Crowley’s jaw, “I can only assume from your response you approve of my idea?” 

“I thoroughly approve, angel,” Crowley says simply before capturing Aziraphale’s lips once more. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married. Just you and me- no one else. Just as it’s always been.” 

“When shall we do it?” Asks the angel, excitement bubbling up in his chest. 

The demon grins wickedly. “No time like the present, eh?” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Sixteen: Aziraphale and Crowley wed.


	16. Chapter Sixteen - 1862, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading this! I finished the last chapter so updates will now be every other day until complete. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen- 1862, Part II**

  
“So how do we do this?” 

The angel plants his hands on his hips. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know. It was your idea.” 

“My idea?!” Crowley exclaims, “You proposed to me! This was your idea!”

Aziraphale huffs, “Well I wasn’t expecting you to want to do it immediately! Else I’d have thought of something!” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Well, we don’t have to do it,” he says, but it very quickly cut off by the angel’s insistence that of: 

“Oh yes we very much do!” 

“Well, then, I’m open to any ideas,” Crowley remarks, exasperated. Aziraphale can be so frustrating at times. Crowley loves him for it. 

“Well,” Aziraphale thinks, growing serious as as his hand cups his chin as he examines the possibilities, “I suppose any union we may make is as valid as Clarke’s and Sebastains, which is to say not at all, but it’s more the act of doing it that matters, than whether it’s viable by human law…” 

“S’pose I could change,” Crowley says thoughtfully, “Take on a more feminine appearance to appease folks. Then we could have a proper civil ceremony. No churches, obviously.” 

“Oh, but that requires so much work on your part,” Aziraphale remarks, “Of course if you want to change, I am perfectly fine with that. You’re lovely no matter what. But if we are to do it that way, we’ll have to provide paperwork, and I do so hate having to forge more papers than is strictly necessary.” 

“I can forge the papers,” Crowley suggests. 

“Yes, but I would still know,” Aziraphale explains, “And I would feel terribly guilty about it.” Silence follows for several moments. “I suppose,” Aziraphale muses aloud, “We could simply purchase rings. You choose mine, I choose yours. Then we simply… promise what we’ve already promised, and exchange them. Marriages for the longest time were verbal contracts. I don’t have any sheep or goats to offer in exchange for my hand, but I don’t think you’d want the hassle of dealing with them anyway.” 

“No dowry on my side either,” Crowley says, “No land to offer or countries to unite. Shame you don’t have any chickens though. Fresh eggs, every morning? Sounds like something you’d enjoy.” 

“Where would I even keep a chicken in the middle of Soho?” Aziraphale asks, looking around in horror, as if he can see the kind of chaos a chicken in a bookshop might create. 

“Well, I don’t have any chickens,” Crowley says, clasping the angel’s shoulders to bring his focus back to the matter at hand. “I think rings’ll do. Nothing fancy about swapping rings and saying a few words to each other. I think that makes about as much sense as anything the humans have come up with.”

“It all is a bit nonsensical,” Aziraphale says as he thinks on it, “But I must say, I do enjoy their nonsense from time to time.” 

“They do have some good ideas, every so often,” Crowley agrees. “So. Rings. We get rings, exchange them, say some words and….poof? We’re married.” 

“As married as anyone else is, really,” Aziraphale says with a shrug, “I daresay we’ve been together possibly longer than marriage itself, so really, I imagine we could do whatever we want and it would make just as much sense.” 

“No need to reinvent the wheel, as it were, though,” Crowley says, “They make things complicated enough as it is. Our plan is pretty straightforward. I like it. Not much fuss, outside of picking out something you won’t hate.” 

“If you choose it, I’m sure I’ll love it,” Aziraphale insists, then amends, “Just… nothing too ostentatious. It wouldn’t do for me to have something so extraordinary that it appears as if I stole it from some nobleman.” 

“Plain and boring, got it.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale huffs. He’s smiling however, which Crowley counts as a victory. 

“Rings,” Crowley repeats, leaning down to kiss Aziraphale. “Then we meet here?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale makes a face. “No, I rather think we should do it elsewhere.” 

“Any ideas?” 

Aziraphale thinks for a long moment, then looks at Crowley. He studies him, as if debating on something, then says, “I have an idea. I’ll leave instructions for you on where to find me. Alright?” 

“Alright,” Crowley agrees, curious as to what the angel has planned. 

With that settled, they go their separate ways. 

___

Following Aziraphale’s directions, Crowley appears in the location described in his note near sundown. It’s a desert, the warmth of the day beginning to give way to the cool of evening. The inbetween is lovely, and Crowley takes a moment to bask in the setting sun before turning to search for Aziraphale. 

He knows he knows this place. It feels familiar, somehow, but time has dragged on for so long that he struggles to put a name to it. Places tend to look different after a few centuries anyway. But a nagging feeling at the back of his mind tells him that even now, this place isn’t too different. He just can’t quite put his finger on it. 

He walks up a path, following the source of divine energy he’s certain Aziraphale left behind to lead him by. He passes a small monastery, stares at it for a moment in curiosity, then continues on, absolutely baffled as to why the angel meant to bring him all the way out to the middle of nowhere. As he nears the top, he spots Aziraphale, standing near the edge of a cave, dressed in his traditional cream colored suit. When the angel spots Crowley, he smiles and waves, delight and love seeming to shine all around him. He looks truly ethereal. He looks amazing. So much so that Crowley has to look away for a brief moment, and when he does- when he looks out over the desert from his vantage point, suddenly he realizes where they are. He stops in his tracks as his breath escapes him. 

“Oh…” 

Upon seeing the realization strike Crowly, the angel rushes forward, clasping the demon’s hand in his. “I do hope I’ve not upset you,” he says apologetically, rushed, and worried. “I only thought… we bore witness to our friend’s vows, and I thought… though he can’t be here… perhaps it might be nice to be in a place that meant a great deal to you… so in some - rather silly, I admit- way, He could bear witness to us.” 

Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale, and the angel frets upon seeing the tears in Crowley’s eyes. “We can leave-” Aziraphale begins, but Crowley shakes his head, cutting him off. 

“It’s perfect,” he breathes, huffing in embarrassment as Aziraphale wipes away his tears. 

“Are you certain?” 

“I’m certain,” Crowley nods, then sighs. “I wish I could have introduced you two,” he says, “You’d have gotten on incredibly well.” 

“I’m sure we would have, especially since we would have had our mutual affection for you to bond over.” 

The demon huffs and looks away, embarrassed. Moved. Overwhelmed. That the angel would do this, would be so thoughtful as to bring him here, to a place where, despite everything, he’d found peace and friendship… it’s almost too much for anyone to bear, let alone a demon who should despise such things. But Crowley has never been a very good demon, and so he turns to the angel he intends to marry in this spot, and kisses him soundly in silent thanks. 

“Shall I go first, then?” Aziraphale says, “Or would you rather?” 

“I will,” Crowley says, voice rough. He clears his throat and pulls the ring he found for Aziraphale out of his pocket. It’s a thick, gold band, Roman in make. Two circular ruby gems flank a slightly larger square ruby, and the angel gasps as Crowley slides it onto his left ring finger. 

“I have known you for a long time,” Crowley begins softly, “Almost six thousand years, now. And I can’t remember a moment, in all that time, that I didn’t love you. Even when we weren’t together, you were in my heart, such as it is. But from the moment we met, my greatest fear has been that I will never be good enough for you. How could you possibly love a demon?” He smiles tearfully. “And then we met in Rome. And for the first time in a long time, we had exactly that. Time. I saw more of you then than I ever had, and every moment in your presence just made me fall more and more in love with you. And then you… you said you felt the same. Not in so many words, but… you looked at me and decided I was worth taking a risk for. And I really don’t think I’ll ever deserve you, but… I’m glad you don’t seem to care about that. And I swear, that from now, until the absolute end of time, I will endeavor to make certain you never regret choosing me.” 

“Oh, darling…” Aziraphale gasps, moved to tears. Crowley wipes them away, then laughs as the angel takes his hand, pulling out a gold band with swirling inlay on the sides, and a square red spinel gem. He slides it onto Crowley’s finger. “From the moment we met, I knew you were special. I was drawn to you, though I had no idea why. And despite everything… I couldn’t get enough of you. Every moment spent in your presence was fascinating, and thought-provoking, and you were charming and funny and clever, and… no one had ever treated me the way you did. As if I mattered, beyond my duties as an angel. And as the years have passed on, you have never once made me feel worthless or, or stupid for wanting the things I do. You indulge me. You listen to me. You care for me, and… I want to spend the rest of our existence caring for you, too. I want to love you openly, and loudly. Without fear of retribution or someone causing you harm. And that is the vow I make to you today, my darling one. I love you, and I will try not to be frightened of what’s to come. Not so long as you’re with me. What we have forged together, these long years, no one can tear asunder. I won’t let them.” 

“Angel…” 

“I love you.” 

Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face in his hands. “I love you, too,” he says, then lowers his lips to the angel’s. 

When they break away, the angel looks up questioningly at Crowley and whispers, “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but are we married now?” 

Crowley barks out a laugh. “Depends,” he says, giddy and foolish and happy. “Do you pronounce us married?” 

“I do,” the angel smiles. 

“Well, I do too. So, looks like we’re married.” 

The angel laughs in delight and surges forward to kiss Crowley once more. His arms wind around the demon’s shoulders, knocking him back a step in his exuberance. Crowley catches him with ease, and kisses his husband for a long while, reveling in the mutual happiness he feels between them. At length, the angel breaks the kiss, but stays pressed as close as he can. 

“I have a wedding cake for us at the shop,” he murmurs. Crowley snickers.

“Of course.” 

“And, once we enjoy that,” the angel whispers, “Perhaps we could have a proper wedding night. It’s tradition, after all.” 

Any teasing remark Crowley might have made is lost to the rush of blood that is quickly heading away from his brain. “Yes,” he manages to growl, hoisting the angel closer to him, “Can’t have a wedding without a wedding night.” 

“Certainly not. Most improper,” the angel agrees, breathless and radiating lust so profoundly that Crowley feels dizzy with it. 

“You’ll have to get us home,” the demon remarks quickly, “‘Fraid I might land us in the middle of an ocean or something…” 

“Don’t worry, my darling,” Aziraphale says, cupping Crowley’s hardness in the palm of his hand and swallowing his gasp with a quick kiss, “I’ll take care of you.” 

And then they’re gone. 

—

When they appear in the bookshop, Crowley half expects Aziraphale to step away from him. To go toward the kitchenette and begin plating slices of cake for them to enjoy. Aziraphale is motivated by food- has nearly gotten himself discorporated over it a number of times- and so the demon expects any amorous attentions he might receive to be placed on hold so the angel can enjoy the cake he purchased for this momentous occasion. 

To the demon’s surprise and delight, Aziraphale does none of that. Instead, he pulls Crowley down to kiss him, a brushing of lips quickly melting into something far more sensual and demanding. Crowley sinks into it, loving just how urgently the angel’s mouth moves against his, as if making up for all the time they’ve spent not locked in such an embrace. 

Crowley groans into the kiss, deepening it by pressing his forked tongue to the angel’s lips, delighting when Aziraphale opens for him, let’s him press into his mouth where his tongue brushes against the angel’s. His hands slides down Aziraphale’s arms, then slip around his waist, tugging him close. Crowley’s body burns with desire, and the delightful aroma of lust he senses from Aziraphale shoots pleasure straight through him, causing him to shiver and press closer to his husband. 

He has a husband. He’s married. It’s so incredibly human- in some ways meaningless for two beings of occult and ethereal nature- and yet it means absolutely everything that they would make such a promise to each other. That when given the freedom to choose, they chose each other. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs, breaking the kiss to take in a breath of air he doesn’t need, and yet it’s so utterly delicious, to gasp in that breath; the same air his husband is breathing. 

“Yes?” 

“Someone’s sake,” he breathes, “You’re incredible.” 

The angel preens under such praise, pressing a kiss to the demon’s jaw. “Shall we move upstairs?” He asks, then playfully adds, “Unless you’ve any pressing fantasies about bending me over the counter and taking me?” 

Crowley groans. “Well, now I do!” 

Aziraphale laughs heartily, and pushes Crowley backwards, towards the stairs. “Maybe later,” he says. 

“You are a bastard,” Crowley murmurs as he steps back onto the first step. 

“Is that a complaint?” 

“‘Course not,” Crowley replies as he turns to move up the steps, “Couldn’t be happier for it.” He yelps a little when he feels the angel swat his arse, looking back to where the angel is hot on his heels. “Fuck, I love you.” 

“Language, dear.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says as he reaches the landing, waiting long enough for the angel to join him before pressing him against the nearby wall, “I fucking love you. And I fully intend to be fucked into the mattress by your hard, thick cock. I want you to fuck me in the arse while I stroke myself to the rhythm you set, and then I want you to come in me, fill me up, and then do it all over again.” He presses a kiss to the angel’s lips, a shockingly chaste gesture after such a description. 

Aziraphale’s voice is shaky when he finally replies, “T-that was q-quite crude.” 

“And yet you liked it,” Crowley says, pressing ever closer against the angel. “I can feel how hard you are. I can feel the lust rolling off you. It’s maddening, angel.”

“Well, yes, because I rather like the idea,” he says, and his heavy breathing is proof enough of that. “But I would prefer more… romantic… descriptions. Fucking sounds so… impersonal, for a wedding night.” 

“Fine,” Crowley says, pressing kisses to the angel’s cheek and jawline as he corrects himself, “I want you to make love to me with reckless abandon. I want you to fill me with your love, again and again, until I am overwhelmed with the feeling of you.” 

Aziraphale gasps. Somehow, the permeation of lust surges. It’s overwhelming now, the desire that radiates off Aziraphale. Crowley is nearly knocked back from how strong it is, yet maintains his balance and instead presses closer. 

“Oh my,” the angel breathes, “You are…. you are very good at your job.” 

Crowley snorts against the angel’s neck. “‘S’not my job,” he says as he lifts his head, taking a step back toward the bedroom, leading Aziraphale with him, “I’m not tempting some bloke to hit on the lonely girl at the bar, angel. I’m seducing my husband on our wedding night.” 

“I am… quite seduced,” Aziraphale says as they reach the bed. Crowley pulls the angel’s hand, leading them together once more, and wraps his arms around the angel, falling into another kiss. It’s sloppy, a little giggly, and perfect. 

Crowley falls back onto the bed, pulling the angel down with him. Aziraphale settles over Crowley, careful not to crush him, and begins kissing with renewed vigor. 

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s lips, as if he needs to speak but can’t bare to let them be separated by any fraction, “That I won’t last very long, regardless of what we do.” 

“Rather close myself,” Crowley murmurs back, distracted by the angel’s lips. 

Aziraphale groans at that confession, hips jerking at just how desperate they are for each other. 

“Then let's make every moment count,” he breathes, and with a snap, strips them of their clothing. 

—

True to their expectations, they don’t last very long. But once they fall against the sheets, sweaty, sticky, and sated, neither can find any reason to complain, and instead curl up together, giggly and delighted. With a snap, Aziraphale cleans up the mess, then settles more comfortably in Crowley’s arms. 

“Well,” he says, trying to recall how one breathes under normal circumstances. His lungs seem to be firing at all cylinders, and he feels lightheaded and breathless. It’s a remarkable feeling. “That was delightful.” 

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees wordlessly, eyes closing as he tugs the angel closer. He’s too exhausted, too lighthearted, to try and remember how to do something as base as talking. He’s sore in the best way, in a way he has no desire to heal, and he simply wants to lie and bask in the sinfully wonderful things he’s feeling. 

The angel brushes his fingers over Crowley’s chest, earning him a shiver. “Did I fire you out?” He teases, “With my reckless lovemaking?” 

Unable to help himself, Crowley laughs. “You most certainly did.” 

“Well,” the angel says as he sits up- causing Crowley to whine most undemoniczlly- to pull the duvet over them, “Get some rest. I think I might even indulge a little myself.” 

“Cake,” Crowley murmurs sleepily, curling around the angel like the constrictor he is, “Figured you’d want some.” 

“I can have cake whenever I wish,” Aziraphale says fondly, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple, “But I only ever get one wedding night with my darling husband. I’d like to enjoy it, if you don’t mind.” 

“Don’t mind at all.” 

The angel smiles, and they drift off together. 

—

Sometime in the middle of the night, Crowley lies on his back, hand outstretched before him. He doesn’t need light to see, but he snaps his fingers and a few candles on the nightstand light up anyway. Silently, he stares up at the ring on his left hand. 

His wedding ring. 

He’d picked Aziraphale’s ring to symbolize how long they’ve been together. It was in Rome that they first confessed, without so many words, their love for one another. And so a ring in the Roman style had been the obvious choice for Crowley. But he also knows, upon closer inspection of his own ring, that the angel had been equally- if not more- thoughtful in his own selection. 

He doubts the angel will mention it. Despite how frequently they seem to do it, the angel is horribly uncomfortable with very deep and personal conversations. It’s why Crowley is so shocked the angel had chosen the place he had for their wedding vows. But Crowley loves him for that choice: to include a part of Jesus in their day, to let Crowley’s dear friend be there, even if it had only been symbolically. 

The ring is the same. Crowley knows, now that he’s not so wrapped up in the angel to pay attention, that his ring is in the Tudor fashion. In fact, he recalls Anne wearing a similar ring to this one. The gem had been emerald, but Crowley remembers the ring. It had belonged to Anne’s mother, and she wore it every day, unto death. Crowley knows. He slipped it on and off her fingers every day for over a year. 

The fact that Aziraphale remembers a ring he barely saw, and that he styled Crowley’s wedding band to remind him of his other dear friend… it does something to Crowley’s metaphorical heart that equally hurts but feels so pleasant he wishes he could stop time and bask in the aching two-tone beat for an age. 

He sighs, tilts his hand, and lets the gem shimmer in the dim light. 

What did he ever do to be so lucky? 

Beside him, the angel stirs. “Oh,” he groans, rolling into his back and stretching. Crowley takes the opportunity to appreciate how the sheets slide down the angels body, exposing his chest and stomach. He’s beautiful. “Try as I might,” he continues, “I’ll never get used to that.” 

He rolls into his side to see Crowley looking at him, hand still up in the air. His brow furrows. “Are you alright?” 

Crowley answers by way of a kiss. “Terrific,” he says, and means it. He shifts closer to the angel, who takes him into his arms. “Just admiring my wedding ring.” 

“Ah,” the angel says, holding up his own hand to let their rings shimmer together, “They are rather fetching, aren’t they?” 

“They are. Rather like the beings wearing them.” 

Aziraphale smiles and presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple. 

“I do find it amusing that we both chose rubies,” Crowley remarks, “Couldn’t have gone better if we’d planned it.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale murmurs, “Yours isn’t a ruby.” 

“It’s not?” Crowley asks, lowering his hand to look closer at it. By all accounts, it looks like a ruby. 

“No,” Aziraphale says, clearing his throat awkwardly. Oh. It’s something personal, somehow. “It’s called a red spinel. Practically the same as a ruby. But apparently something about… it’s… whatever it’s made out of, is different. I don’t pretend to understand geology.”

“Is the difference significant?” Crowley asks, fishing for what Aziraphale isn’t saying. 

“Well,” the angel begins, “There are humans who have placed… meaning… in gemstones. How valid it is, I don’t know. I suppose it’s the same with flowers. There is an entire language with flowers. Types and colors, and all that. Rather fascinating, really, if you think about it-“ 

“Angel.” 

“Yes. Right. Well. The spinel is, among a few other things, supposed to offer…. protection from harm. And… well, I do worry so, and I know it’s probably silly but-“ 

Crowley cuts off Aziraphale’s rambling with a kiss. He lets it linger, waiting for Aziraphale to melt into it, and then indulges for a long moment before pulling away. He moves to straddle the angel’s thighs. Reaching out, he picks up the angel’s hand, cradling it in his own. He presses a kiss to the gemstone, then looks up to meet the angel’s gaze. 

“Ruby’s are said to grant courage.” 

He watches as the angel’s eyes widen in understanding. He sits up. “Oh, darling…” 

They meet halfway, and the kiss ignites something in them both that is overwhelming and all-consuming. Crowley pushes the angel back onto the mattress, and while they’ll argue later over whether they fucked or made love, they both agree that, as far as wedding nights go, none could ever be better than theirs.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Seventeen: the first chapter of the Oscar Wilde Trilogy. Aziraphale and Robbie Ross try to reason with Oscar and convince him not to sue Bosie’s father for libel. 
> 
> (I know some people like to think Aziraphale and Oscar had a romantic/sexual relationship and while I’m not opposed to that idea in theory, it isn’t going to happen here. The only thing between Aziraphale and Oscar in this fic is a very loving friendship, so I don’t want anyone to worry; there’s no implied/perceived infidelity on Aziraphale’s part, nor is Crowley going to be jealous of their friendship.)


	17. Chapter Seventeen - The Wilde Years, Part I (March 1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar is determined to go to trial against Queensbury. Aziraphale tries to comfort Robbie Ross while dealing with his own pain and uncertainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn’t be a “Aziraphale and Crowley throughout history” fic if there wasn’t a whole section dedicated to Oscar Wilde.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of period typical homophobia (Oscar is on trial because he’s challenging Queensbury’s accusation of sodomy.)

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen- The Wilde Years, Part I (March 1895)**

  
Several young men are seated at a booth at the Cafe Royal, all staring at one another with a mix of apprehension, anger, and concern. 

“You must see reason,” Frank Harris, a mustached man with an American accent says sternly. 

Oscar sighs and leans back in his seat. “I must do no such thing,” he says, glancing to his left, where his companion’s expression is full of contempt and barely contained rage. “He is trying to destroy my reputation, and I cannot allow this to go unanswered.” The words almost sound rehearsed; unlike him. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says in that soft, ever-patient manner that oftentimes drives Oscar mad, “This is a very dangerous thing you’re pursuing. I’m sure we don’t need to explain the risks to you, should you choose to pursue-” 

“He cannot allow this to stand,” the other man snaps, slamming a fist on the table, drawing the eyes of the other patrons in the Cafe Royal for a moment. Oscar gives him a look, murmurs, “Boise, please,” and the man lets out an indignant huff and crosses his arms petulantly.

Oscar turns to face the other three. “Are all of you against me?” He asks with a tremble in his voice, as if he despairs at the thought of his friends siding against him. 

“We are not against you,” another young gentleman says softly, handsome features marred with a deep frown and worry shining in his eyes in the form of unshed tears. “We only want to help you.” 

“Then stand with me!” Oscar insists, turning to look at the group of men around him, “Stand with me as I fight against this man!” 

“Oscar,” Frank says, voice deep with authority, “If you pursue this, you are going to lose.” 

“You don’t know that,” Oscar argues. 

“We know that you will have to argue the case in court,” Aziraphale remarks, “And you very well cannot lie under oath.” 

Oscar glares. “What are you implying, Mr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale sighs. “My dear fellow,” he says softly, “You are amongst friends. And you know that we all love and support you-“ he pauses to swallow thickly; lying has never come easy to the angel, and it often feels like trying to swallow a too-generous helping of molasses. He does love and support Oscar, but lately he feels that Oscar has been blinded by whatever affection he has for the brash and tiresome Lord Alfred. “But more than that, we want you to be  _ safe _ . If you rise above this accusation, and don’t travel down this path of self-destruction, surely you will be happier for it, in the long-term.” 

“You don’t believe in him,” Lord Douglas, the man to Oscar’s left declares hotly, “None of you think him capable of proving my father’s words false. This cannot stand! Where have our friends gone?” 

“Your friends are here,” Frank says, staring pointedly at Oscar. Like Aziraphale, the gentleman is not particularly fond of Douglas, but Oscar’s heart has been gripped by the man, and the others know better than to argue matters of the heart. But this foolish errand Oscar has set upon himself must be stopped. “And we are advising you to be sensible. This will all blow over soon, if you let it. The next scandal is but around the corner, as it always is, and if you simply allow time and nature to work its course, you will be free in a matter of weeks. Perhaps a trip to France might inspire you; produce something from the ashes of all that is burning around you.” 

“France?” Oscar scoffs, “You would have me run away, tail tucked between my legs in shame, than to demand this scoundrel pay for that which he has accused me?!” 

“Oscar-” Robbie says, laying a hand on his arm. Oscar jerks it away. 

“Enough of this!” He spits, standing and pulling Douglas up with him. “Come, Bosie. I’m finished.” Douglas stands and moves to leave the cafe, a sneer on his otherwise handsome face. Oscar takes a step, then turns to look back at the other three. “It is at such moments as these that one sees who are one’s true friends.” 

With that, he leaves, Douglas hot on his tail. Aziraphale, Robbie, and Frank stay seated, and look at each other with dismay. 

Robbie cradles his face in his hands. “He’s a fool,” he whispers sorrowfully, trying to hold back his tears. In an instant, Aziraphale moves to sit beside him, pulling the young man into his arms. 

“Let’s not give up hope just yet,” the angel murmurs, soothing the lad with a bit of an angelic miracle. He can feel the tension drain from Robbie as he speaks, offering gentle consolation and hoping against all hope that Oscar doesn’t go through with his foolish plan.

—

The next day Aziraphale stops by all of Oscar’s usual haunts, hoping to see the man and perhaps try to talk some more sense into him. He’s reluctant to use any powers of temptation to stop him- he firmly believes in free will, and knows well from Crowley that temptation is not a forceful bending of one’s will to do what they do not want to do, but a gentle encouragement to do that which they  _ want _ to do. It would be more in line for one to tempt Oscar to go through with such a ridiculous charade than to stop him, since Aziraphale knows that Oscar  _ wants _ to bring down Douglas’ father. Or, at least he thinks he’s sure. If Aziraphale is truly honest, he’s not certain if this is more Oscar’s will, or Bosie’s. Either way, the angel is certain that he stands no match against Bosie’s insistence. 

He supposes he  _ could  _ force the issue, use some far greater miracling to assert dominance on the situation, to force Oscar to cease his mad pursuit. But that thought is tossed away in disgust the moment it forms. Aziraphale has done his fair share of temptations and wicked deeds for Crowley as part of their work arrangement, but to supplant a man’s free will is something in which Aziraphale cannot abide. He doubts Crowley would approve of that either, and so the angel sighs, knowing his only hope is to use some good ol’ fashioned, human persuasion. He doubts it will do any good, but he knows he must try. 

He searches for Oscar for several hours, but can find no sign of the man. He eventually runs into Frank, who is on a similar search with Robbie, but between the three of them, they cannot discern where Oscar and Douglas are hiding. 

“Maybe they went to France, after all,” Robbie says, as he looks to Aziraphale, seeking hope desperately. 

The angel cannot locate Oscar, but he knows better than to believe the man has gone. “Perhaps,” the angel agrees, sparing a look to Frank as Robbie looks away in relief.  _ He needs hope _ , Aziraphale tries to communicate to Frank wordlessly,  _ Let him have this. _

“Come,” Frank says gruffly, laying a hand on Robbie’s shoulder, “Let’s get a drink. It’s cold out, and I could use something to warm me up.” 

“An excellent idea,” Aziraphale agrees as he leads Robbie behind Frank. He desperately wishes Crowley were back in town; he wants to talk to the demon; get some outside perspective. He has no idea what to do, and even if he did, he’s not sure he  _ could _ do it. But perhaps Crowley could think of something to put a stop to this entire situation. He might know who to tempt or what to say. 

He shakes thoughts of his husband aside, and instead focuses on trying to keep Robbie from falling into a pit of despair. The poor lad seems to be holding on by a thread these days, and Aziraphale wishes Oscar could look away from Douglas for a moment to  _ see  _ the consequences of his actions. 

—

As the days go on, things get worse. The papers are overflowing with salacious details of Oscar Wilde’s escapades. There are plenty of accounts, some true and some not, but they are printed with equal fervor, and it’s not long before the only thing on the lips of Londoners is the upcoming trial of  _ Wilde v. Queensbury _ .

One week before the trial begins, Robbie bursts into the shop in tears. It’s been a common occurance the past several days, and Aziraphale quickly ushers out the three customers who had been browsing in an effort to comfort the young man. “He’s so  _ stupid!” _ Robbie laments brokenly as he weeps into Aziraphale’s arms, “I managed to find him,” he says though hiccuping sobs, “But he won’t listen! And the things they say about-” he stops as Azirapahle produces a handkerchief, letting the young man blow his nose, “Thank you. The things they’re saying.... It’s all so horrible. I just… I don’t understand, Mr. Fell. I wish I could but… I’ve never been ashamed of who I am, but with this,” he gestures to the crumbled newspaper at their feet, “Suddenly I wish I’d never met the man. And yet I love him dearly!” 

“It is unjust,” Aziraphale murmurs softly, “It is wrong, and it is cruel. But hu-  _ we _ have always found a way to prevail in the face of hardship. Long have men like us found ways to be who we are, and to do it safely, discreetly. It is not ideal, and perhaps it will not always be this way, but Oscar is also being foolish. He refuses to look at the bigger picture. Refuses to see who he is harming in the process. He is quite determined, I’m afraid. It is now my only hope that you are spared from the vitriol that will accompany him.” 

“I wish I did not love him.” 

“I am quite afraid we cannot help who we love,” Aziraphale says softly, “And even if we could, I would not want to.” 

“Your Mr. Crowley, you mean?” 

Unable to help himself, the angel smiles fondly. “Yes. My Mr. Crowley.” 

Robbie sighs, and for a long while is silent. He takes Aziraphale’s hand; studies the ring on his finger. The band shimmers brilliantly- a miracle one of them used to ensure their rings always look pristine and are immune to the effects of time and wear and tear. It warms Aziraphale’s heart to know that, several hundred miles away, a similar ring rests on his husband’s finger, forever linking them together even when they are parted. It’s a rare and beautiful thing, to be so tightly knit together, through time and circumstance and choice and love. Aziraphale, for all he has seen and endured, can’t help but count himself lucky. 

“Will you be at the trial?” Robbie asks softly, pulling Aziraphale out of his thoughts. 

The angel blinks. “Of course. I am Oscar’s friend. I am  _ your _ friend. I will not abandon either of you.” 

Robbie smiles sorrowfully. “I plan to be there as well. Perhaps then Oscar will see who his true friends are.” 

Aziraphale rubs Robbie’s arm. “Let us not hold against him what was said in a moment of anger,” the angel soothes, “Oscar is afraid, and I think he does not know how to show it.” 

Nodding, Robbie sighs wearily. “You’re right, as usual.” 

“How about some tea,” Aziraphale offers after a moment, “I’ve found a cup of tea often clears the mind and soothes the heart.” 

“Thank you,” Robbie says as Aziraphale stands to move to the kitchenette. He busies himself making tea and placing some biscuits on a plate. When everything is ready, he carries out a tray out and they settle in, sipping tea and talking of anything else except the upcoming trial. As the hours tick by, the angel can sense that Robbie’s nerves have lessened, his grief still immense, but less stifling than it had been when he first arrived. He knows it isn’t much, but it’s something. He can’t help Oscar, but he  _ can _ help Robbie. 

As dusk settles over the city, the door to the bookshop opens, the bell jingling merrily and disrupting the angel and his friend. Puzzled, Aziraphale stands up and moves toward the front. “I’m quite sure I locked the door,” he says, as he hears Robbie mutter, a soft prayer of, “ _ Please be Oscar… _ ” 

It isn’t Oscar, but the sight of Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s spirits greatly. “Hey, angel,” the demon says in that smooth, suave way of his that always leaves Aziraphale a bit weak in the knees. 

“I wasn’t expecting you back for another two days,” Aziraphale says as he moves to Crowley, letting himself be wrapped up in the demon’s arms. 

They share a kiss, and Crowley murmurs against his lips, “Missed you too much.” 

The angel clears his throat. “I missed you as well, darling, but we have a guest,” he whispers, tilting his head toward the back room. 

“From your lack of fussiness, I’ll assume it’s not work-related,” Crowley remarks dryly as he lets Aziraphale go. The angel takes Crowley’s suitcase and motions him aside. 

“I might have almost preferred that,” he confesses as he sits the case down on the counter. He then turns to Crowley and whispers, “Oscar is in the middle of a scandalous trial. He’s been accused of sodomy. Hearings begin next week. Poor Robbie is here; the dear has been through it, I’m afraid. Oscar is not acting rationally. In fact, that awful Lord Douglas is encouraging him- probably the mastermind behind it  _ all,  _ really- and I fear it’s only going to end in heartbreak.” 

“I saw a headline,” Crowley murmurs, “Didn’t bother reading more. Figured it was nothing more than the gossip mill Looking to stir up some trouble.” 

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale sighs, “I would love to welcome you home properly, but-” 

“Go be an angel,” Crowley says, placing a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead, “I’ll run by my flat and drop off my things, yeah?” 

“I’ll buy you a drink in return,” Aziraphale says, the  _ thank you _ understood. 

“See you in a bit,” Crowley says, grabbing his suitcase and leaving out the front. Aziraphale sighs, watching his husband leave and wishing for nothing more than for him to stay. But Robbie is in the back room, in need of a friend. In need of comfort and love and hope. All things Aziraphale is well-equipped to offer. He takes a deep breath, then returns to the back room to offer what comfort he can in such a hopeless situation. 

—

Later, after Robbie has insisted he is fine and has left for the evening, Aziraphale takes his time in cleaning up. The tedious practice of washing the dishes and putting away the tea service allows him to think. His mind dwells on Oscar, Lord Douglass, and the Marquess. He thinks of Robbie. He thinks of his own friendship with the writer, and how he isn’t sure that the trial won’t be the utter end of Oscar Wilde. He’s grateful the laws have loosened in recent years. His own meddling with Crowley, Clarke, and Sebastian helped in that regard, but progress is often slow, and it takes a great deal of effort to make some of these men change laws that are utterly reprehensible. 

Humans have always been clever and creative, especially when it pertains to methods of harming one another. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the bookshop bell once more, and he steps toward the front to see Crowley, changed out of his travel clothes and looking fresh and as handsome as ever. 

“Robbie gone?” He asks and the angel nods. “I read the papers,” he says as he moves toward the upstairs. Aziraphale follows. “Some truly messy business.” 

“That’s certainly one way to describe it,” Aziraphale agrees as they walk upstairs. “But, please. Let’s go out. Get that drink. You can tell me all about your trip. I can think of something else for a moment.” 

“You sure you want to go out?” 

“Positive.” 

They leave together and visit one of London’s nicer restaurants. A table is miraculously free, and so they settle in, and Crowley orders a very expensive brandy for them to share. 

“How was the race, then? Everything you hoped?” 

“It was  _ amazing _ , angel,” Crowley says with a big grin, “Automobiles are the future, I can feel it. And they’re only going to get faster and more incredible. I’ll probably get one myself, once they invent one I like the look of. Not very flashy at the moment, but if I know humans, they’ll find a way to make a hunk of metal completely stylish.” 

The angel shakes his head. “I suppose if it makes you happy,” he says, “Though I can’t see what the fuss is all about. They seem awfully dangerous to me.” 

“Humans like to go  _ fast,”  _ Crowley explains, “Remember chariot racing? Now there’s no horses to abuse. Just this motorized steam engine. You should be all for it! Less involvement with horses is always a surefire way to gain my approval.” 

Aziraphale sighs, “I suppose you have a point. But I’m still not fond of it. And I have no intention of riding in one of those contraptions anytime soon, so if you  _ do  _ purchase one, you’ll be enjoying it  _ alone.”  _

“Oh, come on, angel. I’d never let anything happen to you.” 

“You’re a darling, but it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s the machine itself. How do they know it’s safe?” 

Crowley opens his mouth to explain, but then snaps it shut. “They just… do.” 

Aziraphale gives him a smug look. “They just  _ do, _ hmm?” 

Crowley rolls his eyes, and pours the angel some more brandy. 

—

Later, as they walk back toward the bookshop, Aziraphale is quiet. His hands wring together, fidgeting with his wedding ring, and Crowley watches him with worry for a long moment before asking, “What’s on your mind?” 

Aziraphale sighs, “I’m worried about the trial,” he says simply, “Oscar refuses to listen to reason. That dreadful Bosie has him by the heartstrings and loves to tug on them when it’s most convenient for him. Poor Oscar can’t see reason. He’s breaking Robbie’s heart. And poor Constance. And the children. I know she is unwell, and is staying far away from the trial, but it has to weigh on her. I’ve been so preoccupied with Robbie I haven’t even thought to check in on her. I feel positively hopeless.” 

“Anyone you want me to tempt?” Crowley asks, “Maybe away some opinions?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale sighs, “I feel so… torn. I despise agreeing with Lord Douglas on  _ anything, _ but it is true that his father is a wretched man. Cruel and hateful. I’ve only met him once and I confess, even  _ I  _ ran out of patience dealing with him.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley remarks, knowing first hand how hard it is to truly try the angel’s patience. 

“And… obviously I believe these laws are absolute rubbish,” Aziraphale continues, “Adult humans should be allowed to love who they wish, so long as everyone is consenting, but as it stands, these blasted laws _are_ in place, and Oscar _has_ had relations with other men and I am not supposed to condone lying in a court of law because _that_ _is wrong_ , but the law is wretched and unjust and-” the angel stops and lays a hand to his temple, “It’s all so very vexing.” 

“I think,” Crowley says at length, “You’re too close to it. You’re invested in Oscar and Robbie and Constance. You want to help them, but Oscar has made up his mind. So has that prick Queensbury. I think, hard as it may be, you should take a step back. Let them sort out their mess themselves, and just be there to offer your angelic comfort when it all goes to shit. Because for someone, it will.” 

Aziraphale looks as if he wants to argue, but any fight he might have had has long since left him. “I suppose you’re right,” he admits after a bit of pensive silence. 

“You can’t protect everyone, Aziraphale.” 

“I can try.” 

“And you’ll wear yourself out,” Crowley says as he begins pulling the angel toward the bookshop. “Be there for Oscar. Comfort Robbie. Ease Constance’s pain. But don’t wear yourself down trying to change humans. They might invent automobiles and moving pictures and all sorts of incredible things, but deep down, they’re all the same. They’re all people, and they all are prone to fucking up every so often. Best you can do is ease the ache when they do.” 

“I do so hate it when you’re the sensible one,” Aziraphale remarks, leaning closer to the demon as they walk. “But I think you might be right.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings toward Lord Alfred Douglas, and all of them are hatred.
> 
> The line Oscar says about “seeing who one’s true friends are” is apparently what he actually said to Frank during that meeting in the Cafe Royal. 
> 
> Crowley was at a race in Germany. Automobiles existed by this point, and there were some races that were going on by the mid 1890’s. I wanted to establish Crowley having a love of automobiles earlier than him just suddenly owning a Bentley in the 30s, and I thought it might be fun for him to be invested in those early races. He didn’t participate; just watched. But he is a changed demon. Originally there was going to be an entire chapter dedicated to Crowley at the race, but I don’t know anything about cars or racing, past or present, and I couldn’t figure out a scenario that would make it interesting enough for a whole chapter, so I compressed it down to a couple scenes and feel better for it. 
> 
> Coming up in chapter Eighteen: Oscar is sentenced to two years hard labor. Aziraphale tries to pick up the pieces left in Oscar’s wake.


	18. Chapter Eighteen - The Wilde Years, Part II (April 1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar is sentenced to two years hard labor. Aziraphale tries to pick up the pieces left in Oscar’s wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind reviews. Glad you’re enjoying the story! 
> 
> No real warnings for this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen- The Wilde Years, Part II (April 1895)**

  
The trial is madness. 

Witnesses are paraded through the courtroom- some genuine and others paid off- to disparage the name of Oscar Wilde. In the back, Robbie Ross sits, stoic and stiff as he watches the proceedings. To his left is Aziraphale, and to the angel’s left is Crowley, who looks on with distaste and annoyance. 

Though not a friend of Oscar’s, Crowley understands how dear the man is to his angel. From the moment Aziraphale first mentioned the man, Crowley had known he’d be nothing but trouble, but Aziraphale had been endeared to the man. His quick wit and writing had delighted the angel, making Crowley remember with fondness his short but impactful friendships with Jesus and Anne. There had been other friends, over the centuries. Aziraphale had been chummy with several scholars in Ancient Greece, and even as recently as the seventeen hundreds had become very close to some of the other editors of the  _ Gujin Tushu Jicheng.  _ They can’t help it, Crowley supposes. Try as they might, humans somehow always find a way into their hearts. 

Beside him, Aziraphale sits, hands wringing nervously as Oscar takes the stand. He is flippant in his answers, sarcastic and full of that damning wit. After one particularly sarcastic remark, the angel hangs his head and mutters, “Oscar, be  _ serious _ .” 

The trial eventually gets to the writer too, as he finally confesses, after being called out on another pointedly nonchalant answer, “You sting me and insult me and try to unnerve me; and at times one says things flippantly when one ought to speak more seriously."

Aziraphale and Robbie exchange a knowing look, but no words pass between them. Wordlessly, Crowley slips his hand over, clutching Aziraphale’s in his own. The angel glances down at their hands, then up at Crowley, and despite the risk, despite the trial, despite everything, he smiles. It’s sad and fleeting, but he knows Crowley is doing all he can, and that means more to Aziraphale than anything. 

—

Wilde loses the trial. He disappears after that, and after a frantic search, Robbie, Aziraphale, and another man in Wilde’s circle of friends, Reginald Turner, find him. Aziraphale has never seen the man look so defeated, so downtrodden. 

So hopeless. 

“You can still leave,” Robbie suggests, holding Oscar’s hand. Where Robbie’s hand clasps, Oscar’s is limp.

“There is yet time,” Reginald agrees, “We can sneak you out of the country. Between us all, we can secure you passage.” 

“The train is gone...” Oscar mutters, staring off into the distance, perhaps to the future he’s doomed to endure. “It’s too late.” He glances up at Aziraphale, almost as if seeking a direction from the man. Aziraphale remains quiet. He cannot encourage running from the law. Even if the law is unjust. The angel wrings his hands, wishing Crowley were here to offer the suggestion he feels unable to give. 

“Whatever you decide,” he does say, after a moment of deliberation, “You had best do it quickly, my dear. You are right in one regard: it is late.” 

Oscar sighs, and says no more. It becomes apparent to the others that his decision is made, and so they sit beside him and wait. The writer’s head falls onto Robbie’s shoulder, and the younger man squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep from weeping. 

—

Three days later, a knock on the hotel door makes all the men inside jump. Oscar is sitting between Bosie and Robbie, and Aziraphale is across from them, trying and failing not to glare daggers at Douglas. In the time they’ve spent waiting, the angel has decided that while he is obligated to love all humans, he truly does love Bosie the least. He senses no love from this man- not toward Oscar, not toward anyone. Oscar radiates love; Robbie does too, but it’s a quiet and subdued love, almost as if it’s been purposely stamped down and forcefully tamed. Douglas feels like a void, one that leaves Aziraphale feeling cold. 

The police enter, and issue the warrant for Oscar’s arrest. He goes without complaint, without protest, and the others watch as he is handcuffed and escorted out of the room. Robbie silently weeps. Aziraphale feels defeated. Douglas looks irritated. 

Finally, the angel sighs. “We need to tell Constance,” he says firmly, “I’ll not have her read it in the papers.” 

Across the room, Bosie scoffs. 

Aziraphale turns sharply to him, eyes blazing with righteous fury. “And  _ you  _ should be the one to tell her,” he snaps, “Since you are the reason we are in this predicament at all!” 

Bosie looks affronted. “Are you blaming me for this?!”

“No,” Robbie says, trying to maintain peace. He’s never seen Aziraphale angry before, and worries what might happen. 

“Actually,  _ yes,” _ the angel corrects, stepping closer. Bosie flinches. “You know I have no qualms with the nature of your relationship with Oscar, but what I  _ do _ take issue with is your selfish use of his fame and prestige to try and get revenge against your father. He may be wretched indeed, but you are no better, young man! You have cost Oscar a great deal, and I hope you are plagued with guilt for what you have brought upon the Wilde’s, upon Robbie, and upon the rest of us!” 

“Now see here,” Bosie snaps, that boyish bravado snapping into place, “I’ll not stand here and be talked at like I’m-“ 

“What? A child?” The angel snaps, “Why should I speak to you as anything other than what you are? You throw tantrums when you don’t get your way. You are vain and conceited, and you don’t love anyone except for yourself. I sincerely hope, despite our mutual connections, that this is the last time I must be forced to be in your presence.” 

With that he turns, and marches toward the door. “Come Robbie,” he says, “We have much to do.”

Wordlessly, Robbie follows. As they leave, the angel makes certain to inform the desk that the bill for the room is to be placed under the name Douglas, and then he and Robbie leave for Constance’s. 

After a block of tense silence, Robbie clears his throat. “I’ve never seen you angry before,” he says. 

Aziraphale scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “I confess, I did rather let myself get carried away back there.”

“Not at all!” Robbie insists, and for the first time in weeks, the man smiles. “You said exactly what I wished I could have said myself! I am forever grateful to you for that. I should like to see you have more outbursts in future.” 

Aziraphale laughs. “If Mr. Crowley plans to purchase an automobile as he claims he is, you may be privy to more in the near future.” 

—

Constance is a picture of grace and misery. She has always been a lovely woman, and even in her grief she is lovely. But her features are marred by pain, both physical and emotional, and she stands stiff and rigid as Aziraphale and Robbie inform her of Oscar’s arrest. 

Silently, a few tears slip down her face. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, “For telling me.”

“You’re his wife,” Aziraphale says softly, feeling how Robbie tenses ever so slightly at the words, “You deserve to know what has become of your husband.” 

“I am glad someone thinks so,” she says with a wince as pain shoots through her. Robbie is up in an instant, ready to assist her, but she waves him off with a pained smile. “I’m fine, my dear,” she says, “Standing hurts less.” 

“Can I fetch you anything?” Robbie asks, concern on his features. 

“No, thank you,” she says with a sigh, then blinks. “Actually, yes. Oscar’s papers. Can you collect them? Protect them?” 

“Of course,” Robbie says, and with a look to Aziraphale he rushes into Oscar’s office to rummage through his possessions and collect any writings that are stored there. 

While gone, Constance turns her focus onto Aziraphale. “Is it true?” She asks softly, “Did Oscar commit those crimes?” 

Aziraphale freezes. He cannot lie. Rather, he  _ should not _ lie. But he cannot tell the truth here either. To lie will give Constance a false hope of her husband’s fidelity, but to tell the truth will break her heart. It’s a slippery slope, and the angel is afraid to budge an inch, lest he fall. 

His silence seems to give Constance answer enough. “Did he commit those crimes with you?” 

Aziraphale blanches. “Most certainly not!” He says emphatically. “Even if my love for Oscar  _ were _ romantic or sexual, he is married. And I would never have done that to you.” 

Constance nods, and the look on her face suggests she’d known the answer all along, just merely wanted to hear it confirmed. “Robbie?” She asks. 

Aziraphale swallows. Stammers, “I cannot say for certain.” It’s  _ technically  _ true. He knows Robbie loves Oscar. Knows Oscar was fond of Robbie for a time. He doesn’t in fact know the extent of their companionship. So he cannot, in fact, say for certain. 

“Bosie?” She asks one last time, and again, the look on her face hints that she already knows, but merely wants to hear Aziraphale say it. 

Aziraphale says nothing, he can’t bring himself to do that to Constance, but has the good grace to keep her gaze. Constance looks away, and sighs. 

“I thought as much.” 

She winces again, and Aziraphale stands, moving to her to assist her to a seat. “Here,” he offers, as he moves her gently, “You need to rest.” His hand warms ever so slightly on her back, and a miracle eases into her bones, lessening the ache that seems to cling to her like a shadow. As she settles, she wiggles experimentally, and gasps at how  _ good _ she feels. 

“Thank you,” she says, relieved, “That’s much better.” 

Robbie returns then, carrying a briefcase he’s stuffed full of papers. He looks haunted, distraught, but says nothing as he holds the case out to Aziraphale. 

“I think you should keep them,” he says, glancing at Constance. “I will be going abroad, I think, and should not want to have them found on my person.” 

Aziraphale looks to Constance, who nods. He takes the briefcase. “I’ll protect them,” he says, “And I’ll return them, in two years.” 

“Feels like such a long way away,” Constance remarks softly. “I can’t imagine how long it will feel for him.” 

“I’m certain he will be fine,” Aziraphale assures her softly, resting his hand on hers. “But we must first and foremost look to your well-being.” 

“Yes,” Robbie agrees. “It may be wise for you to go abroad, as well. For the time being, anyway.” 

“I have already been instructed to do so,” Constance says, “As well as change my name. I do not wish to, but…” 

“Think of your sons,” Aziraphale says, “It is horribly unjust that they suffer for any crimes their father has been judged for, but the world can be cruel.” 

“As I have witnessed first hand,” she says wearily, “I will be leaving soon. Within a week, if all goes according to plan.” She looks up and holds out a hand to Robbie. He takes it. “I will miss you both.” 

“When you’re settled,” Aziraphale says, “Write to me.” He looks at Robbie. “Both of you.” 

“Of course,” they agree, then Constance pulls them both in for a hug. 

—

Entering the shop some time later, the angel sags against the door and lets out a sob. The weight of the past several days has finally settled upon him, and he feels oddly weak and very much heartsick. Just as he’s about to push himself away from the door, Crowley appears, concern furrowing his brows. “Angel?” 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, then let’s his head hang. 

“He’s been arrested, I take it.” 

Aziraphale nods. 

“You okay?” 

Aziraphale looks for a moment as if he might simply say yes, that he’s fine. Brush it off and try to focus on something else. But the case in his hand weighs heavy, and his heart is grieved for all those involved, and he can do nothing more than shake his head and dissolve into tears. 

Crowley is at his side in a moment. He leads the angel back to the couch, gently pries the case from the angel’s fingers, and then tugs him down so he’s encased in Crowley’s arms. 

Crowley doesn’t really know how to offer comfort, so he doesn’t try. He just holds Aziraphale and lets him cry. He strokes his arms, presses kisses to his temple, and simply waits as the angel lets out the weeks of frustration he’s felt. 

“I feel so helpless,” Aziraphale confesses after a long while. “I sometimes wonder what we’re even doing here… I can’t imagine our influence makes much difference.” 

“You can’t save everyone,” Crowley says softly, “Despite how you try.” 

“I know,” he says, “I just wish-“ he stops; shakes his head and just sags against Crowley. 

“What do you wish?” 

Silence follows for several long moments. “A great many things,” Aziraphale says at last, “To have been able to protect Oscar. Robbie. Constance. To do away with these horrid laws. To be free to live as we wish, without worry of man or our offices learning the truth. I want humans to stop hurting each other so much. I want to  _ stop caring,  _ if only for a moment. I…” he pauses, then admits, “I don’t really know  _ what _ I wish.” 

Several moments tick by. Finally Crowley murmurs, “Well… I can offer you a blowjob and a two week nap.” 

The angel laughs despite himself. “Perhaps reverse the order? I am rather tired, I think.”

Moving, Crowley ushers the angel up and moves them toward the stairs. “Come on then. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he says. They go upstairs and the angel hides the suitcase away, then joins Crowley in the small bedroom, changing into a tartan nightshirt and falling into the bed. They curl up together, Aziraphale wrapped in Crowley’s arms. 

As the angel drifts to sleep, wanting to escape the heartache he feels for Oscar and Robbie and their friends. Crowley presses a kiss to his brow. “You rest now,” he whispers, remembering how comforting Aziraphale had been the day he’d lost Anne. “And when you wake, I promise, things will be better.” 

—

Oscar’s face is obscured by the metal fence that sits between him and Aziraphale. It’s been eight months, and this is the eighth time Aziraphale has been to visit. Once a month, for half an hour, he spends time with Oscar, filling him in on the world that is passing him by. 

Each time, Oscar looks progressively worse. Today is no exception. 

“You look… terrible,” Aziraphale says upon greeting.

Oscar laughs. “I can always count on your honesty,” he says fondly, “It is one of the remaining comforts I keep.” 

“Are they treating you well?” Aziraphale asks, eyeing the guards behind Oscar who look at him with poorly disguised distaste. 

The man lets out a pained sound. “No.” 

Aziraphale says nothing. What can one say in such a situation? Finally Oscar speaks again. “How are Robbie? Constance? My boys?” 

“All well,” Aziraphale assures him. “Constance’s back is improved, but other health issues have come up. She assures me they are not serious, but a minor operation may be required in time. Your boys are well. In school, impressing everyone with their wit.” 

Oscar smiles sadly. “And Robbie?” 

“Abroad. Doing as well as one can, given the circumstances.” 

“Of course.” 

Aziraphale hesitates, then remarks, “I notice you never ask me about Douglas.” 

Oscar has the decency to look ashamed. Aziraphale nods. “How often has he come, then?”

“Twice,” Oscar says forlornly, “Once when I was first placed here. Once five months ago. He told me what you said to him.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze hardens. “I’m not sorry.” 

“I don’t expect you to be,” Oscar replies easily, “I find my opinion of him now rather matches yours.” 

“Let us hope that is an opinion that stays with you, for your own sake.” 

They talk of other things, for a bit, and it’s easy to pretend they’re back at the Cafe Royal, arguing over a piece of literature or some other such triviality. But then the whistle blows, signaling the end of their meeting. Quickly, the angel reaches out his hand. Oscar lifts his own, and their fingers entwine through the fence. “Blessings on you,” Aziraphale says softly, “Rest and comfort. Health and hope.” 

The miracle settles into Oscar’s skin, and the man blinks, his eyes a little brighter than they were before. 

“Your visits always seem to inspire new life within my soul,” he says softly, clinging to Aziraphale’s hand. “I do not think I could survive without you, my friend.” 

“You’re tougher than you look,” Aziraphale teases, as he releases Oscar’s hand. “I will see you in a month.” 

As Oscar is cuffed once more and led to his cell, he can’t shake the tingling warmth from his hand. It’s pleasant, and only noticeable when Aziraphale touches him. His mind feels clearer; his feet do not ache so badly. His trembling lessens. His heart does not feel as if it’s being pulled down by brambles. It isn’t love; he knows the feeling that inspires. This however is more prominent, like an ink stain on his skin that only he can see. 

Oscar looks over his shoulder, but Aziraphale is gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I projecting my hatred of Bosie into Aziraphale? Absolutely. 
> 
> The quote about Oscar “speaking flippantly when one ought to be more serious” is apparently what he actually said during the trial; likewise, the comment about it being “late” is what he said after he was found guilty. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Nineteen: 1900; Oscar is at the end of his life. Aziraphale tries to balance caring for others and finding room for his own grief.


	19. Chapter Nineteen - The Wilde Years, Part III (Hôtel d'Alsace, Paris, November 1900)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar is at the end of his life. Aziraphale tries to balance caring for others and finding room for his own grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Love you! 
> 
> Chapter warnings: character death, discussion of grief/mourning

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen- The Wilde Years, Part III (Hôtel d'Alsace, Paris, November 1900)**

  
Aziraphale stares at the telegraph that Robbie handed him, tears welling in his eyes. 

_ Terribly weak. Please come.  _

“I’m going,” Robbie says with a sigh. “I shouldn’t… but-“ 

“You love him,” Aziraphale answers, feeling the intense sorrow of that love radiate off the man as if it were an overpowering cologne. 

“I do. So, I’m going. I thought you might want to know. I’m sure he’d like to see you again too.” 

The angel nods. “He wrote me last week,” he says, looking over his shoulder to where a letter sits, crumpled and stained with tears, “Asked me to visit, before the end. I confess, I’ve been afraid to go.” 

“We may not have much time left,” Robbie says, glancing at the telegraph sorrowfully, “If he’s as bad aa I believe he is.” 

“You go on, then,” the angel decides, “I will be a day behind. Just need to close up shop; take care of a few things.” 

“As if you ever sell anything,” Robbie remarks playfully, a rare smile ghosting across his lips. It feels good to see him smile, the angel thinks, and hopes that someday, he’ll feel he can smile freely once more. 

“Off with you now,” the angel huffs good naturedly. Robbie leaves, walking in the direction of the train station. Aziraphale locks the door, then turns, immediately rushing to find Crowley. 

The demon is working on some wily scheme involving several forgeries, but he stops when the angel walks in, looking distraught. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oscar is dying. Robbie says it won’t be long.” 

Crowley nods. “When do you leave?” 

There are moments when it amazes Aziraphale at how well he and Crowley know each other. Despite the fact they’re meant to be enemies, they have a deeply intimate understanding of one another, so much so that the angel can scarcely believe it. Crowley knows his moods and temperament; Aziraphale can read Crowley’s grunts and snarls for what they are. They’ve perfected the art of communicating between the lines, a place they’ve long existed together, and it’s a warm comfort in this moment. 

“Tomorrow.” 

Crowley hums in acknowledgment. He stands and guides the two of them toward the back room. “Think I may join you; got some business in Paris I need to look into, anyway.” 

_ Do you want me to come with you, angel?  _

“If you like,” Aziraphale says softly. 

_ Would you, my love? Please.  _

With that settled, they make arrangements, and the next day are off to France. 

—

Aziraphale and Crowley arrive on Friday to a wretched scene. Oscar is weak; barely conscious. He’s never been a small man, but in this bed, in this hotel room surrounded by the few remaining friends who stuck by him, Oscar looks remarkably small. Fragile. His face is gaunt and sickly, his body frail from his struggles. 

Life has not been kind to him in recent years, Aziraphale thinks bitterly. 

Between himself and Robbie, they’ve managed to help him stay afloat. Barely. Some money here and there, a place to stay, a kind look. Nothing much, but more than what many are now willing to give the man. 

It’s a tragic tale, with a bitter end. It’s the kind of story Aziraphale loves to read. Humans are amazing at capturing the essence of suffering, and Aziraphale has always enjoyed the ache in his chest from those stories. The pain that comes with loving these characters, but the relief that they are not real, that their suffering is nothing more than a series of well organized words. 

But Jesus? Anne? Oscar? 

They aren’t stories- not to Aziraphale. He can’t close a book this time and feel the bittersweet contentment of a novel completed. This is a person; this pain is not borne of appreciation for the written word. It’s ugly and dark and cramped and sour. It’s real. Aziraphale can’t turn away from this to find something more cheerful to fill his evenings. This is what he must live through. This is the Divine Plan. That all creatures must meet this end, and often in the most pitiable and heart-wrenching of ways. 

Robbie greets them as they enter the room. “Not long now, I think,” he whispers. “I was afraid you would be too late.” 

He steps aside to allow them entrance, and the angel moves with purpose toward the bed. Oscar blinks at him, smiles weakly, and twitches his hand in silent request. Aziraphale takes his hand, squeezing gently. 

“He was given the Last Sacraments,” Robbie says, speaking softly so as not to disturb Oscar. “He was only able to say some of it.” 

“He always said he wanted to die Catholic,” Aziraphale remarks dryly, recalling how the blasphemous remark had managed to endear Oscar to Crowley. 

Aziraphale looks from Robbie to Oscar, then to Crowley. The demon is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but he gives Aziraphale a sympathetic look that only the angel can discern. His dark glasses have served him well over the centuries to keep people from seeing his eyes, but Aziraphale knows him well enough to be able to read the expression even with the barrier in the way. 

Oscar shifts, and the angel’s attention is brought back to the matter at hand. Oscar squeezes his hand weakly, and looks at him with hazy, unclear eyes. He stares for a long moment, then looks over to where Robbie has perched on the edge of the bed, and struggles to inch his hand closer. Taking pity, Robbie catches Oscar’s hand in his and lifts it to his lips. 

Oscar gives him the briefest of smiles, then shifts his gaze to Aziraphale. The angel lets a burst of divine warmth spread through the man, giving him a last few moments of clarity. He eases the pain, makes the breathing a bit easier, but Aziraphale knows he can do nothing more. 

That tingling warmth that often swirled around Oscar’s hand during his stay in prison returns now, and the man looks at their joined hands, then up to Aziraphale. 

In Italian, Oscar whispers, his voice weak and scratchy, “I always feel so much better when you’re near. Why is that?”

Aziraphale could give him some empty platitude, something to soothe the spirit of a dying man. But Oscar is his friend, and the angel can’t help but feel a great desire to give Oscar a more genuine comfort. That of the truth. 

He glances at Crowley, who seems to sense what Aziraphale is about to do, and looks away in order to hide his smirk. 

With that approval, the angel turns back to look at Oscar. Bending down, he presses a kiss to the man’s temple, and whispers back in Italian, “I am not called  _ angel _ for nothing, my dear. You were never alone.” 

Oscar smiles the smile of a man who’s suspicions have been proven right, and then he closes his eyes, and finds peace at long last. 

—

The funeral is simple. A pauper’s funeral. Robbie handles the arrangements only because he insists it be him, though Aziraphale manages to slip some extra money into his pocket. Oscar is buried outside Paris, and Robbie stands stoic and glassy-eyed as he watches his lover put to rest. 

Robbie says nothing, but accepts Aziraphale and Crowley’s invitation out for drinks. They toast Oscar, in all his glory and through all his faults, and enjoy wine and good food as they know he would want. Aziraphale and Robbie swap stories about the man, from his impeccable wit to his infuriating stubbornness. They laugh and cry, and Crowley keeps the drinks coming, a silent guardian, watching over Aziraphale as he mourns with his friend. 

Eventually, now that they’re drunk enough to venture to other topics, Robbie asks, “How did you two meet? I don’t think Fell has ever said.” 

“Oh goodness!” Aziraphale blusters, looking to Crowley for some sort of assistance. They’ve never really discussed how to explain themselves to anyone. All their energy goes to coming up with excuses for being together should either of their head offices ever catch them. They’ve never thought about how to explain to a human the nature of their relationship. 

“Well, you see,” Aziraphale begins, uncertainly, “Goodness, it’s been so long now, I-“ 

“We met in a garden,” Crowley says simply. Aziraphale spares him a curious look. “It was a nice day,” Crowley explains, “And I was out for a walk. Then out of nowhere, it began to storm! Raining like mad. I was caught out in it, and just as I was about to make a dash for somewhere dry, there he was. Sheltering me from the rain.” 

Crowley sits back and takes a long gulp of wine, trying to seem unaffected by his own story. But Aziraphale smiles at him with blinding affection, and the demon is helpless, huffing and looking away, his cheeks burning. 

“How lovely,” Robbie sighs wistfully. 

Later, when they’ve had their fill and Robbie is drunk, Aziraphale escorts him home, Crowley trailing behind. Once Robbie is settled in his hotel room, tucked in and blessed with a restful night’s sleep, Aziraphale emerges to begin their own trek back to their accommodations. The streets are quiet, and it does nothing to lift the somber, contemplative mood Aziraphale finds himself in. As they walk, Crowley reaches over and slips his arm through the angel’s. “You alright?” He asks knowingly. 

Aziraphale ponders for a moment, then leads Crowley away from their hotel and toward a nearby park. They settle on a bench, encased in darkness and shadow, and in that cover, the angel curls up against the demon, seeking his comfort. Crowley wraps an arm around the angel’s shoulders, pressing him close. 

“It’s strange,” Aziraphale muses, voice soft and melancholic, “We’ve been through countless wars… plagues… we’ve seen so much death, on the grandest of scales. Thousands dead. And yet… the loss of one person can ache worse than that of a thousand.” The angel blows a breath out of his mouth. “Why do you think that is?” 

“You knew him,” Crowley says simply. “You love him. It’s different.” 

“Yes, but I’m an angel,” Aziraphale says, “I’m meant to love all Her creatures. Equally. Without preference. It’s my  _ job _ .” 

“Yeah, but  _ She’s  _ had her fair share of favorites,” Crowley argues, “Humans She singled out for whatever purpose. Maybe not  _ recently,” _ he amends, “But She used to.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale sighs hesitantly. “I just… I suppose I feel strange, feeling such an intense sorrow for the loss of one man when I’ve witnessed countless humans die. I suppose I’ve never understood it. The intensity of such heartache, over one person. And yet-“ he stops, a sob wrenching out of his throat, “And yet my heart  _ aches _ . I feel so…” he pauses, searches for the word to encompass the levity of his sorrow, “I feel such woe…” he stops short and glances at Crowley, eyes wide with horror and realization. “Is this how it is for you? When-“ 

“Yeah, angel,” Crowely says quickly, clearing his throat to stifle the sob that slips out at the end, “Yeah. That’s how it feels.” 

“I hate it,” Aziraphale confesses, “It’s wretched.” 

“You’re grieving,” Crowley explains softly, “Of course it's wretched. It’s the worst feeling in the world. But it’s a feeling you get accustomed to.” 

Aziraphale wrings his hands together and looks ahead, at the empty park before them, “It’s never going to go away, is it?”

“No,” Crowley whispers. 

Aziraphale sighs. “I was afraid of that.” 

Crowely doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. He simply holds Aziraphale, arm thrown around him, fingers idly rubbing his shoulder in a form of comfort he isn’t certain helps, but dedicated himself to anyway. 

After a bit, Aziraphale sniffles and wipes his eyes, fingers wet with freshly formed tears. 

“I need to pull myself together,” he says resolutely, “Stiff upper lip, and all that. I’m sure Robbie will be a mess tomorrow. And Oscar’s sons need to be told before they read it in the papers. And-“ 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says with a firmness that surprises Aziraphale. He looks at Crowley curiously. “You’re allowed to have time for yourself,” he says, “You can grieve for Oscar. You don’t have to be an angel fulfilling your blessed Heavenly duty at all times. You can be someone who lost their dear friend. You’re allowed to have favorites. You’re allowed to love some humans more than others. I don’t think we’d be good at our jobs if we  _ didn’t  _ get attached, just a little.” 

Aziraphale sniffles again. “It’s been a century, and yet I still remember Gabriel’s utter disregard for earth… for humans…” He shakes his head. “I can’t fathom not caring for them.” 

“Then you should care. You should grieve for Oscar. We can take care of Robbie together. Maybe I can go tell his sons, if it’ll take some weight off you.”

For the first time in several days, Aziraphale smiles, bright and beautiful. “You are a darling.” 

“Only for you, angel.” Crowley punctuates the sentiment with a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, then lifts his hand to the angel’s head, gently easing him down so his cheek rests on the demon’s boney shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers softly, eyes closed as he allows himself to rest. He always feels strangely tired after such an emotionally tumultuous experience. He wonders if that’s normal, or somehow Crowley’s influence of liking sleep. 

“Nah,” Crowley grunts, “We’ve been through a lot, you an’ me. Seen a lot. Watched a lot of good people die. It… it wears on you. After a while. World is full of troubles.” 

“It hasn’t all been bad,” Aziraphale remarks, smiling through his tears, “I opened the bookshop, you discovered a love of automobiles.” 

“We got married.” 

Aziraphale presses closer to Crowley, smiling softly. “We got married.” 

They sit in silence for a bit longer, enjoying the other’s companionship. Eventually Crowley speaks again. “You’ll be fine,” he assures the angel. “It just takes time. And we have that in spades.” 

Aziraphale sighs and looks up at the stars. They seem endless, just like the time that stretches out before and after them. “That we do,” Aziraphale agrees, “That we do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the Wilde Years. The thing about Oscar wanting to die as a catholic is apparently true. He didn’t want to live as one, but wanted to die as one. 
> 
> Oscar speaks to Aziraphale in Italian because he wants their conversation to be private. Robbie didn’t know Italian. Here, Oscar has long suspected that Aziraphale was more than he seemed, and so on his death bed, Aziraphale confirms this, and speaking in a language Robbie didn’t know ensured Aziraphale could be honest, but also keep his true nature a secret. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Twenty- the Great War ravages the world. In its aftermath, Aziraphale and Crowley try to find ways to recover from their experience, and along the way, help several others.


	20. Chapter Twenty - The Great War, 1918-1920

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley work as nurses during the Great War. In the aftermath, they all slowly heal together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one of my favorite chapters. Hope you enjoy! Please pay attention to the warnings, below: 
> 
> Warnings for chapter twenty: war; brief, non-graphic mentions of blood, sickness, death, surgery, amputation; brief, non-graphic but casually discussed mention of past domestic abuse, implied homophobia (because it’s 1920), and an overall theme of dealing with/recovering from the trauma of war. 
> 
> I promise though, the second half of the chapter is uplifting, and features Crowley and Aziraphale playing matchmaker for two shy disaster lesbians. So it’s not *all* doom and gloom!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty- The Great War, 1918-1920**

_  
Casualty Collection Station somewhere outside Rouen, Autumn 1918 _

Crowley wipes the sweat from her brow, and sits wearily on the cot that has just been emptied, watching as another body is carried away on a stretcher, covered in a stained white cloth. It’s the fourth person today, and her shift only began three hours ago. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she stands, looks over to her left, and sees another patient in need of help. With a sigh, she steps over, squats down next to the man who is missing an arm and a leg, and touches his shoulder with a gentleness she typically only reserves for the angel. 

“Hush now,” she breathes, a soft lilt to her voice managing to soothe the man as he grumbles and struggles in his sleep. “No more dreams.” 

He goes quiet next to her, and Crowley stands, looking down at the man with pity. Looking around, she feels nothing _but_ pity. This war has been unlike anything she’s ever seen, and there is no end in sight, it seems. It makes her feel weary; makes her feel more hopeless than she’s felt since the day she Fell. 

Across the room, she sees Aziraphale helping a man who had been exposed to mustard gas. She watches as the angel, donning a feminine appearing form for the first time, tends to the man, talking to him in a manner that calms and soothes in a way Crowley can never quite manage, for all her efforts. Once things seem settled, she turns, looking up to see Crowley. She smiles softly, then tilts her head, a silent gesture for the demon to follow her. 

They slip out of the tent, and step several feet away for some privacy. “How are you, darling,” Aziraphale asks, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“Miserable,” Crowley snaps, then reigns in her venom and sighs. “Miserable,” she repeats, softer this time. 

“I know,” Aziraphale replies with that same gentle tone she’s mastered using with her patients. “It feels as if this will never end.” 

“Every time I think things will improve… they just get worse.” 

Aziraphale nods. “I must confess, I’ve sometimes worried this is The End Gabriel spoke of, but…” 

“This feels much worse than anything Heaven or Hell could concoct,” Crowley says wearily. 

“Indeed.”

There’s a shout from inside the tent, and a demand for a nurse to help. Aziraphale wrings her hands together. “We should probably return.” 

“Probably.”

They stand for a long moment, weary, forlorn, and unable to part from one another. After a moment, Aziraphale steps closer and wraps her arms around Crowley. Crowley wastes no time embracing Aziraphale back. They hold tight to one another for several long moments, neither willing to let go. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers. 

“Love you too.” 

Reluctantly they part, then slip back inside the tent to see to their patients. 

—

Later, when their shift ends and they each have a few minutes alone, they find one another and sit curled up on Aziraphale’s bed in the ladies barracks, sharing a freshly rolled cigarette. The angel isn’t fond of the habit, but it gives her something to do, and so she takes a short drag before handing it back to Crowley. 

“Word on the street is another wave of that influenza is coming,” Aziraphale mutters, “They’re seeing more cases in some of the other stations. Only a matter of time before it hits here.” 

“Humans can’t catch a break,” Crowley sighs, taking a long drag, “Whether they bring it on themselves or Pestilence gets bored and conjures up something new. Guy needs a fucking hobby.” 

“I dare say this _is_ his hobby,” the angel remarks wearily. 

They fall silent for several minutes, instead choosing to bask in the company of one another. They’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, as close as they can get in a place that allows no privacy. Several other nurses are sequestered together in small groups, holding hands and hugging and offering comfort to one another where they can. Despite her exhaustion, Aziraphale waves a hand and blesses the lot of them with a restful night's sleep. Then she slumps against Crowley’s shoulder. 

“You’re working too hard,” the demon remarks, feeling the tingling sensation of the blessing against her skin. Aziraphale blessed her too. It should probably be painful, but it isn’t. Crowely doesn’t allow herself to think on what that means. 

“They can’t help others if they themselves are weary,” Aziraphale says simply. “We need these ladies at their best. If that’s all I can accomplish, well. I’ll have helped more that way than by saving my energy.” 

“Still. Don’t overdo it.” She leaves any worry about Heaven out of her warning, but the angel hears it anyway. 

“If anyone has a problem with the amount of miracles I’m expending, I’ll simply plant them in the middle of the nearest trench and tell them to have fun.” 

“Bold words.” 

“I’m _tired,”_ Aziraphale huffs, “And angry and frightened… whatever Heaven might say or do to me for getting involved can’t be worse than-“ she stops and gestures vaguely around them, “Than the metaphorical _hell_ we’re already in.” 

As her hand sweeps, Crowley catches a glimmer of the angel’s wedding ring. It’s comforting to see that some things haven’t changed. So much has- the world has gone to shit- but one thing that hasn’t changed in all their time on earth is them. Their devotion to one another. Their love. It’s carried them through so much, and even though Crowley often wonders, as the angel said earlier, whether this might be The End, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that no matter what, they’re going to face it together. 

“Hell isn't quite as cramped as this,” Crowley remarks slyly. Aziraphale lets out a soft laugh beside her, and that’s enough for the moment. 

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

They sit for a while longer, occasionally talking about a time before the war. They hint at what they intend to do, if there’s an _after:_ Aziraphale is going to buy a new suit and have a fabulous dinner at the Ritz- if it’s still standing. Crowley is going to sleep. 

But until then, they sit on a shabby cot, wearily passing a cigarette back and forth, and watch over the tent of young women who, for the first time in months, sleep without nightmares. 

—

Aziraphale’s source is right. The Influenza strikes, and it strikes _hard._

Both angel and demon do what they can, but not even their combined efforts to soothe and heal can keep up with the breakneck pace of Pestilence’s wrath. They spend more time helping carry out the dead than they do anything else, and Crowley has cried so much her eyes burn. 

Nurses grow ill tending to the sick. Several women that Aziraphale and Crowley had come to know well end their shift with a weary sigh, and by the next morning are dead in their cots. 

Through it all, Crowley and Aziraphale stay vigilant. They work in tense silence, doing what they can, saving as many people as their ability grants them without raising suspicion. But Pestilence is a master craftsman, and even if they could heal every person who enters their tent, it would barely impact the number ravaged elsewhere. 

More than once, the angel lies awake listening to the softly muttered prayers some of the nurses whisper through their stifled sobs. Eventually it becomes too much, hearing those desperate pleas she knows are falling on deaf ears, and so she rises, curling against one of the girls and whispering blessings into them disguised as words of comfort. Most nights Aziraphale occupies a different bed, holding a broken-hearted and frightened nurse, trying to offer what little comfort she can. 

After the girl’s find rest, she returns to her cot, where Crowely is often waiting, and Aziraphale collapses into Crowley’s arms, trying and failing to hold back her own tears. Crowley holds her through it, saying nothing because what _can_ be said? So she just holds her, lets Aziraphale cry, and tries not to let her own anger boil over into something explosive. She’s questioned God more than once during this stint as a nurse, and she figures she’ll do it plenty more before it’s over. 

_Is this all part of your Great Plan?_

Days pass in a blur. Countless people pass through their station; most leave under white sheets. Crowley drifts through the day in a haze, tending to people and healing where she can. Powerful demon or not, she can only do so much in the way of actual legitimate miracles, and when she has to submit a quarterly report explaining those miracles, she struggles to justify them. She feels sick as she makes up excuse after excuse. Lying has never bother her before; why does it bother her now? 

With a hiss, she pushes the thought aside and does her best not to dwell on it further. 

Word of the war comes every day. Some days are better than others. Every day a list of wounded and dead pour in. None of the names register on either Crowley or Aziraphale’s radar, but the staggering count weighs them down. Eventually Crowley stops paying attention. Instead she miracles up cigarettes and sweets for the girls, and takes extra shifts so some of the girls can breathe. Aziraphale miracles up extra paper, pens, and stamps, so the ladies can write to their families and friends. 

They all sit together, in the spare moments they’re allowed to simply exist, and trade stories, share secrets, and confess their dreams. They stitch themselves together as sisters, because otherwise they know they’ll all fall apart. 

—

One day, while in the midst of tending to a man whose leg has just been amputated, Crowley hears a commotion from outside the tent. There’s screams and shouts, crying and laughter. Curious, Crowley rushes toward the front of the tent, looking for Aziraphale in the midst of the chaos. 

“It’s over!” Someone shouts, and the group begins to shout anew, cries of relief and joy and anguish erupt louder than trumpets over the whole area. Crowley feels her chest constrict, and she turns to the nurse next to her, a young brunette named Joan. 

“What’s happening?” 

“Germany surrendered!” Joan says, tears falling down her cheeks, as if she can scarcely believe it. “The war is over!” 

Crowley gasps. _“Angel!”_

Turning, Crowley searches frantically for Aziraphale. As the group begins hugging and laughing and stumbling about in their elation, Crowley pushes through, calling out for Aziraphale, searching everywhere for her. 

Finally, she spots the angel coming out of one of the back tents reserved for amputations. She removes the bandana from her face, and wipes her bloodied hands on her apron, rushing forward with concern. 

“What’s wrong?” She calls out urgently, “I was helping the doctor with an amputation and we heard shouti-oh!” Crowley sweeps the angel into a hug, and presses their lips together, not caring who might see. 

“It’s over,” she breathes when she pulls away, “Angel, the war is over!” 

A shuddering breath escapes Aziraphale, and she practically collapses right there. Crowley’s grip is all that keeps her upright as Aziraphale breathes, “Oh thank-“ she stops herself, then continues weakly, “Goodness. It’s really over?” 

“Germany surrendered. It’s done, angel. It’s over.” 

“Oh, darling!” 

They embrace, and Crowley feels the angel’s shoulders shaking as she weeps. Crowley is crying herself, all the pent up anger and fear and stress of the past several years spilling out of her as they stand in the middle of the collection station and simply revel in the fact that for the first time in what has felt like forever, there’s _peace_. 

—

It doesn’t last. 

Or, more accurately, it _does,_ for a time, which unsettles them. 

In living with such proximity to humans for the duration of the war, Crowley and Aziraphale have adopted certain human traits they now can’t seem to be rid of. For the first month after they return, they do as they discussed: dine at the Ritz and then take a three week long nap. Upon waking, both had assumed things would return to normal- performing miracles, drinking wine, and puttering about the bookshop as an ethereal and an occult being. 

Except, now Aziraphale gets tired after a day of working (or reading, or pacing aimlessly, or helping rebuild in the wake of the war). He tries to stifle yawns to no avail, and more often than not nods off in his chair, book laying on his lap as his head bobs forward, eyes drooping closed. 

Crowley gets hungry. He doesn’t particularly care for food, but after a few years of forcing himself to have an appetite to ensure the other nurses didn’t get suspicious, eating has become as innate as his other habits. He doesn’t eat much- he never could bring himself to eat more than a few bites- but he feels his stomach growl all the same, at the same time they’d taken their meals at the camp. 

They both frequently forget to sober up after drinking too much, and Crowley eventually concocts a hangover cure that tastes like shit but works almost as well as a miracle. 

Neither of them seem to realize they can simply will their bodies to behave as they had prior to the war. It simply becomes a part of them, despite the fact they both grumble about it all the same. 

Eventually though, they settle into their new normal. Aziraphale takes up baking- quiches and savory hor d'oeuvres- things that are small and light, but filling after only a few bites. Crowley purchases the fanciest bed on the market, with the nicest silk sheets and a black tartan duvet that’s equally warm enough for him but light enough for the angel. They stay in bed through the weekends, layabouts in a flat in Mayfair. They don’t dedicate all their time to sleeping, though they do find new and exciting ways to exhaust one another that allows them to forget the horrors that once kept them awake despite their exhaustion. 

Aziraphale begins a book club for wounded soldiers on Thursday’s, where he tests out all his new recipes on the gaunt gents who are missing limbs and whose memories of the trenches seem to catch them by surprise even now, if the hollow, far away look in their eyes is any indication. They don’t talk about their experience- _how_ does one talk about something so terrible? But they read poetry and eat little delicate savories and when they leave for the evening the phantom pain in their missing limbs is subdued, and they get a decent night’s rest for the first time in a week. 

Crowley, on nights when Aziraphale nods off despite assuring Crowely he isn’t tired, writes letters to many of the girls he worked with during the war. The ones who returned to London meet up for drinks once a month, and Crowley dons her fanciest getup to join them on those nights, for their own form of therapy by way of drinking and dancing with handsome men, or- if those are in short supply- each other. 

Crowley watches as two of the former nurses- Betty and Joan- frequently choose to dance together even when there are more than enough gentlemen to go around. She tells Aziraphale about them, and the angel insists on joining Crowley next month. “Perhaps we could… I don’t know. Inspire them?” He offers, wiggling his hand a bit, where his ring glistens almost cinematically. “Everyone needs to find what happiness they can, after everything.” 

Crowley agrees, and the next month, they change their appearances to convey the traditionally feminine forms they wore back during the war, don their best dresses, and enter the pub that has been dubbed by the girls as ‘Bedrest’. 

Betty and Joan are there, making eyes at each other as they share a match to light their cigarettes. Crowley walks up and wraps her arms around them both. “Ladies,” she coos, pressing a kiss to both their cheeks. 

“Antonia,” they greet her, then notice Aziraphale. “Well, I’ll be!” Joan exclaims, “Look who it is, ladies! Mama Zira!” 

“Good evening, dears,” Aziraphale coos, taking a seat next to Crowley. 

Conversation picks up, and the girls all begin to drink heavily, laughing and carrying on in this unconventional type of therapy. But kindred spirits are the best way to cope with such trauma, and so they share stories and memories and laugh and cry in turn, alcohol loosening their tongues and allowing them to vent their feelings to those they know will understand. 

Crowley contributes here and there, but Aziraphale stays silent, carefully watching as Betty and Joan watch them. It had been no secret that the two of them were extremely close, but neither Crowley or Aziraphale had expounded on their relationship when some of the braver girls had dared to ask. But now, Aziraphale reaches out, and gently lays her fingers on Crowley’s arm. The demon turns to look at her, and with a pointed look, Aziraphale manages to convey exactly what she’s doing. Crowley smiles. Aziraphale leans forward and whispers something in Crowley’s ear, making a point to let her lips brush against her cheek. When Crowley turns to respond, their noses brush, and Aziraphale can’t help the smile that spreads across her lips. 

Around them, a few of the girls chant and cheer, whooping as Aziraphale jerks away and looks up at them. She’s flushed and looks embarrassed, but that’s the point. Her gaze shifts quickly to Betty and Joan who are both watching with equal interest. 

“Looks like you two have gotten friendlier since the war ended,” a blonde named Opal remarks, chin resting in her hand knowingly. 

Crowley leans back in her seat and smirks. “War makes strange bedfellows of us all,” she says, winking at Joan whose cheeks burn bright red. “Though, I was rather familiar with Zira’s bed before that.” 

Another round of teasing cheers and whoops follows that remark. “Ain’t that the truth, though,” another girl, Peggy, says as she adjusts her glasses. “Do you girls remember Mary Beth? Well, I heard talk that she and this nurse- Susie, I think- were caught kissing in the barracks and Susie got shipped off to another base. But then Mary Beth’s husband was killed in action-“ she takes a moment to make the sign of the cross, and a couple other girls follow suit- “Not long after the funeral, she and Susie got a flat together.” She grins and wiggles her eyebrows, “I hear tell that there’s only one bed, despite the place being big enough for two.” 

“Oh my!” Rose remarks as she presses a hand to her chest. She’s grinning from ear to ear, however. “Must not have been a loving husband, if he’s that easy to move on from.” 

“Nope,” Peggy waves her hand dismissively, “I bunked next to Mary Beth when I first arrived. Saw the bruises on her shoulder. I’d say she’s better off with Susie. She couldn’t kill a fly with a brick if you pinned the thing to the table.” 

“Peggy, _really_ ,” one of the girls admonishes. 

“Well,” Aziraphale remarks softly, “Let's hope they can enjoy some peace and quiet together, no men or flies involved.” 

“What’s the difference?” Crowley mutters sarcastically, causing Aziraphale to swat at her while the other girls laugh before conversation turns back to Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“So you two are…” Opal presses, leaning forward and wiggling her brows suggestively, “How did that happen? Mama Zira, you’re so mild mannered. How’d you get caught up with a lass like Antonia?” 

“Yeah, how _did_ that happen?” Peggy asks. “You’re complete opposites!”

They glance at themselves, then each other. Despite looking a touch older than the girls they’re surrounded by, they still come across as rather young. Crowley is dressed in the latest style- black of course- and Aziraphale is still sporting her usual cream and tartan, seeming like a mild mannered housewife who would be delighted to have a husband to dote upon. 

Aziraphale chances a look at Betty and Joan, who have been silent the whole time but are watching with rapt attention. “We’ve just… always been together,” Aziraphale says simply, “It was never an option, to be anything but together.” 

“What about your families?” Betty asks, finally breaking her silence, “How do you- I mean… isn’t it _dangerous?”_

“Absolutely,” Crowley says simply, “But the best things in life usually are.” She takes a moment to glance at Aziraphale, and they share a small smile between them. “And what our families don’t know, won’t hurt us.” 

“But what if they _do_ find out?” 

Aziraphale reaches out and takes Betty’s hand, granting her a small bit of courage as she holds it tight, “You have to decide if you’re willing to take that chance. You can live a life full of fear, or a life full of love. They’ll often coincide, but the one that is stronger is the one that you embrace.” 

Betty watches Aziraphale for a long moment. After a moment, her gaze shifts, and the angel watches as Betty glances slightly to her left, where Joan is watching with wide, hopeful eyes. 

“Oh, enough of this,” another girl named Harriet sighs, breaking the moment as she stands and downs her shot, “It’s a new world! Sleep with whoever you want!” She turns and looks over at a table of sailors, a couple of whom are eyeing the group of nurses with great interest, “As for me? I see a couple blokes I’d like to get into some trouble with. Ta ta, girls.” She blows a kiss to the table and steps toward the group of guys, already drawing herself across the shoulders one one particularly handsome man who seems quite open to her advances. 

Peggy makes an amused face. “Well,” she says, taking a shot, “Someone has moxy.” 

“Someone’s going to get in trouble,” Rose says with a shake of her head, “Though what a fun way to do it…” 

“Plenty of folks around who’re probably willing to get in trouble with you,” Crowley says simply, and Aziraphale can feel the air shift with a bit of demonic magic. Rose grins and leans forward. 

“You seem to know a lot about getting in trouble,” she says, “See anyone worth my time?” 

Crowley scans the room and sees someone at the bar watching the group with mild interest. She nudges Aziraphale, who subtly snaps, shifting the atoms in the air and making it so that Rose has a lovely evening with the person of her choice, and that hopefully it will lead to a long and satisfying romance. When Rose turns to look at the person in question, she grins, and with a kiss to Crowley’s cheek she moves to the bar. 

Across the table, Betty and Joan are purposely not looking at one another, but under the table, it’s quite clear that their hands are linked. Aziraphale smiles. She catches Crowley’s eye, and sees that the demon has noticed too. 

As the night wears on, Betty and Joan relax more and more, dancing together and holding hands as they sit and sip whiskey, eventually kissing in the corner, where Peggy whoops and cheers for them, much to their mutual delight and embarrassment. Seeing that things are going as they should- Rose is currently entertaining a gentleman and a lady at the bar with some story about one of the more harrowing surgeries she’d helped perform during the height of the war- Aziraphale leans close to Crowley. 

“I’m rather tired,” she breathes. 

Crowley nods and pulls out some notes to pay for their drinks. “Then let’s go.” 

They bid farewell to their friends and make their way back to the Mayfair flat. Once inside, they move to the lavish bed, falling into it after only managing to kick off their shoes. Aziraphale curls up in Crowley’s arms, falling asleep almost instantly. 

They wake up the next morning hungover and hungry. Crowley makes her signature hangover cure while Aziraphale fries some eggs, and then they take their food back to the bed. Aziraphale opens a window before settling down beside Crowley. They eat their breakfast, sobering up the agonizingly slow, human way, after spending an evening with humans they met while helping fight a very human war. 

And beneath them, the world carries on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to have Aziraphale and Crowley run into Tolkien, since he fought in WWI, but the timing just didn’t really work, since I wanted the chapter to begin right near the end of the war. We’ll pretend that happened off screen because I love the idea, but I didn’t want to spend more than one chapter per World War. 
> 
> Coming up in Chapter Twenty-One: Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the new love of his life*, and Aziraphale is forced to reveal a secret that leaves Crowley stunned. 
> 
> *spoiler: it’s the Bentley


	21. Chapter Twenty-One - Soho, 1933

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the new love of his life, and Aziraphale is forced to reveal a secret that leaves Crowley stunned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a silly little something to break up the two world wars. Fluff and smut ahead.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One - Soho, 1933**

“So what do you think?” 

“What do you mean  _ what do I think?” _

“I mean: what do you think?” Crowley gestures at the object in question. Aziraphale stares, brows furrowed in confusion.

“I  _ think,” _ he says diplomatically, “That it is an automobile.” 

Crowley grins, all teeth and mischief. “And?” 

“And what?” 

The demon huffs. “C’mon, angel. Do you like her or not?!” 

The angel gives his husband an unimpressed look.  _ “Her?”  _

“Gives her character,” the demon says, waving away the remark, “And what a character she is! Look at ‘er, angel! She’s terrific!”

“She…” the angel starts, uncertainly, “Is certainly… something.” 

The demon’s face falls a little. “You don't like the Bentley?” 

“It’s not that I dislike the automobile,” Aziraphale says, “I just… am not as enthusiastic about them as you are, darling. If you like her, then I am happy for you.” 

Crowley stares at Aziraphale for a long moment. “Suppose that’s all the praise you’re gonna get,” he says to the car, causing Aziraphale to huff and shake his head. 

“I merely think they’re dangerous, is all,” the angel explains, gesturing toward the automobiles that pass by them on the street. “And they go so fast. And no doubt you’ll only make it go as fast as possible.” 

“I am offended you think I would ever do anything even remotely dangerous,” the demon declares, “Especially when I recall having to save  _ you _ from more than one dangerous situation!” 

Aziraphale glares. “I wasn’t in-“ he stops, remembering that as an angel he isn’t supposed to lie. He sighs and relents, “Just. Be careful, please.” 

“Careful is my middle name.” 

“You don’t have a middle name; you’re a demon.” 

“I have a middle initial,” Crowley replies, enjoying how annoyed the angel is. He’ll have to do some groveling later to get back into the angel’s good graces, but that just means it’s twice the fun for the demon. 

“Yes, and I don’t understand  _ why _ you insisted on having one of those either.” 

“Because it helps me blend in,” Crowley explains, leaning against the driver’s door of the Bentley. “Perfectly human- having a middle initial, Mr. A. Z. Fell.” 

The angel glances up at the name of his bookshop. “Yes, but that was your idea, too. I don’t see why I can’t just say my name is Aziraphale, which it is. Plenty of people have had odd names over the centuries.” 

“Sure, but-“ as Crowley goes to make some point about how usually one has more than  _ one _ name to balance out the weirdness, Aziraphale spots three gentlemen in sharp suits round the corner and make their way toward them. 

“Why don’t you take me for a drive,” Aziraphale says quickly, cutting Crowley off as he moves around to the passenger side and opens the door. “Come along, it’ll be jolly good fun. Let’s go!” 

Crowley stares, confused, then notices the men walking their way. He doesn’t sense any holy or demonic essence, but at another insistent, “Come along, Crowley!” from the angel, he slides into the car and revs up the engine, pulling them away from the bookshop and onto the street. 

They drive in silence for a couple blocks before Crowley glances over at Aziraphale, looking at him worriedly. “What in Heaven’s name was that about?” 

Aziraphale sighs. “It’s nothing serious,” he says dismissively, “Nothing I can’t handle at least. I just didn’t want to deal with them today.” 

“Who’s  _ them?”  _

“Well, I don’t know who  _ they _ were, but based on their brutish looking demeanor, they most likely represent a Mr. Wexler that I have had the displeasure of dealing with off-and-on for about six years now.” 

“Wh- wait-  _ six years?!”  _ Crowley exclaims, looking sharply at Aziraphale who yelps and demands Crowley keep his eyes on the road. “Why haven’t you said anything about this, Aziraphale?!” 

Aziraphale points in front of them, “ _ Please _ keep your eyes on the road, darling; oh, this is why I do not like these things…” 

“I’m not going to hit anyone, angel,” Crowley gripes as he takes a turn, leading them out of the city. “There. Now, what do you mean six years? And why haven’t you mentioned it to me at all?” He sounds a little hurt, at being left out. 

“I didn’t want to concern you,” Aziraphale huffs, “What was I supposed to say: oh, hello, darling. Do be aware, I have a notorious gangster demanding to purchase my shop so he can have complete control over this part of Soho, but after several refusals he now sends thugs to  _ negotiate,  _ which leaves me no choice but to deal with them in turn, would you like some tea?” 

“Yes, actually! That would have- wait, what do you mean  _ deal with them?”  _

“I make them go away,” Aziraphale says plainly. 

“What?” Crowley asks, looking at Aziraphale with a raised brow, ”Do you murder them or something?” 

Aziraphale gasps, looking positively scandalized by the accusation. “Of course I  _ don’t  _ murder them!” He declares, “I am an  _ angel, _ I do not  _ kill _ people! How dare you suggest such a thing!” He lightly smacks Crowley’s arm, causing the demon to laugh. 

“Okay, then how do you ‘make them go away’?”

“Can we please park,” the angel pleads, “I can’t have this conversation while fretting over your driving.” 

“My driving is fantastic,” Crowley insists as he swerves to park on the side of the road near an empty field. There isn’t a soul in sight, just grass and wildflowers. It’s a lovely bit of scenery, if he’s honest, but the demon has more interesting things to dwell on at the moment. “Now, explain.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Aziraphale says indignantly, “Mr. Wexler came by around six years ago. You were at a race, I believe. Gone for a few days. He told me his proposal: he wanted to buy the bookshop. I said, ‘No, thank you. I’m not interested in selling.’ He said he understood and left. I assumed that was that, and by the time you returned I’d forgotten all about it. Then about, oh, I don’t know, six months or so later, he returned, with two burly men in ill-fitting suits, and asked if I had reconsidered. ‘Why, no,’ I said. ‘I have no intention of selling.’ He said he was disappointed, and asked if I’d met his associates. ‘Obviously not,’ I replied, ‘And I think bringing them as a means of intimidation is rather telling. You want this place. I do not wish to sell. Seems to me, you should rather want to get into my  _ good graces, _ rather than this pitiful attempt to frighten me.” 

Crowley, now turned to full face the angel, sits slack jawed and wide eyed. “You’re kidding. You didn’t say that!” 

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale sniffs. “I may be an angel, but I’m not stupid.” 

“Never thought you were. Certainly don’t think it now. What happened next?” 

Aziraphale thinks back for a moment. “They left. Those two gentlemen showed up again about a month later. I think they spied on me. They always made sure I was alone before they came by. I don’t know if they were afraid of you or simply wanted to catch me alone, but you were always away when they came by. They made some vague threats, I smiled politely, and suggested they leave. And then I made them go away.” 

“Where did they go?” 

Aziraphale shrugs. “I certainly don’t know. I just made certain they weren’t anywhere near me. And Mr. Wexler never sent the same men twice.” He looks at Crowley, who seems completely shocked, staring mutely at the angel. Aziraphale reaches out. “My dear it’s not that I don’t trust you, I promise. Had anything more substantial than a few vague threats happened I would have said something, please know that.” 

Crowley says nothing. Aziraphale looks away, twisting his wedding ring around his finger nervously, then looks back. “Will you please say something?” 

“Back seat.” 

Aziraphale blinks. “Beg pardon? Back seat?” 

“Yes,” Crowley says as he moves, slipping into the backseat and patting the spot beside him. “Come on.” 

The angel twists to look at him. “Why?” 

“Because,” Crowley says insistently, “I want you to fuck me.”

The angel looks aghast. “I wasn’t trying to seduce you, darling.” 

“Too bad. You managed it anyway. C’mon. Come ‘ere.”

The angel looks at his husband in complete exasperation, then sighs longsufferingly, and crawls into the back seat next to Crowley. “In your new automobile?” 

“Yep!”

Aziraphale watches as Crowley undoes his trousers and begins doing the same. Seeing Crowley so eager does something to him, and it’s but a moment before he’s hard himself. “This will be rather undignified.” 

“It’s ginchy is what it is,” Crowley says, moving to straddle the angel’s hips. It’s the work of a miracle to ready himself, another to slick Aziraphale’s cock, then Crowley sinks slowly down, causing them both to groan. “See? Terrific.” 

The angel hums as Crowley settles over him, then grabs his hips and begins to move them, finding a leisurely rhythm that leaves the demon gasping. 

“It is, rather,” the angel agrees between thrusts, loving the feel of Crowley rocking above him. It’s not as loving and intimate as it could be back home- this is clearly  _ fucking,  _ rather than the angel’s preferred method of making love- but despite the cramped backseat, he can’t help but revel in just how hot and bothered his story has made Crowley. “Care to explain what got you going, as they say?” 

Crowley lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Because you great bloody bastard,” he says, rocking his hips a little harder, a little faster, “You just told me you’ve made an enemy of the bloody  _ mafia _ . You didn’t even blink when threatened, and have apparently managed to make several dangerous criminals simply  _ vanish  _ to who knows where! That’s positively  _ demonic.  _ And coming from you? It’s downright  _ fucking-“  _ he lifts up and slams back down on the angel, earning him a sharp groan of pleasure, “Brilliant.” 

“So long as you're pleased,” Aziraphale gasps, pulling Crowley down to kiss him hungrily. Crowley begins moving faster, sliding one hand down to grip his own erection with a miracled-slick hand. 

“Very pleased,” Crowley murmurs against his lips as he begins to writhe without finesse. “Fit to burst, ‘s’how pleased I am.” 

Aziraphale makes a desperate sound, then spills within Crowley, who follows a moment later, groaning loudly as he sags against the angel, completely spent. 

The angel cleans them up and restores their clothing with a mindless snap, then wraps his arms around Crowley and sighs contentedly. “I’ll have to think of something even more dastardly, the next time they come, if this is the response I get.” 

Against his throat, Crowley laughs, then presses lazy kisses against the skin there. “The couple that schemes against the mafia together stays together,” he remarks, “That’s how the saying goes, innit?” 

“Undoubtedly,” the angel agrees, too relaxed to care whether or not that’s true. They lay there for a long moment, in the backseat of the Bentley, when Aziraphale muses aloud, mostly as an afterthought, “Is this the done thing? Coitus in the back of one’s automobile?” 

He feels Crowley shrug against him. “Probably. Humans ‘ave been doing it on every flat surface since literally forever, so it makes sense.” 

“Think they did it in carriages?” Aziraphale asks, his fingers stroking up and down the demon’s bony spine. Crowley shivers and arches into the touch, more cat than snake. “Can’t imagine that would be pleasant. Too bouncy.” 

“Maybe the bounce makes it better,” Crowley suggests, wiggling his hips. “You like it when I bounce on you.” 

“Don’t be crude!” Aziraphale admonishes, though there’s no heat to his words. He won’t admit it, but Crowley is right. 

“Crude or not, it’s true,” he says, sitting up to leer over the angel, “As evidence of, oh, five minutes ago?” 

“You are horrible,” Aziraphale gripes. Crowley grins. 

“You say the sweetest things, angel.” 

The angel rolls his eyes and sits up. “Let’s get back to the bookshop.” Crowley nods, but leans in for one last kiss. The angel obliges, and neither is surprised when that kiss ends up lasting far longer than any singular kiss ought to. They are both breathless by the time the part. 

“Right. Bookshop. Let’s go,” he says, reluctantly slipping away from Aziraphale to crawl back into the driver’s seat. Aziraphale follows him to the front, and once settled, they begin the short drive back to London. 

When they arrive back at the bookshop, they sit for a moment to inspect their surroundings. Once confident the three thugs are no longer around, Crowley exits first and moves around to let Aziraphale out. Upon exiting the car, Aziraphale turns back to give it a once over. 

“Upon further reflection,” he says to Crowley, “I find I’m rather more fond of the Bentley than I was earlier.” 

Crowley smirks and follows the demon inside. “Can’t imagine why,” he says dryly, “Maybe it’s the same reason why I’m so fond of that hideous couch you keep in the back room.” 

Aziraphale starts to fuss over the fact that his couch is  _ not _ hideous, but before he can make his point, Crowley kisses him and drags him to said couch, where he makes  _ his  _ point several times over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ginchy” is old fashioned slang for “sexy” 
> 
> For those not familiar with the book, Aziraphale kept getting harassed by the mafia because they want to buy his building. He makes them vanish. It’s just a kind of passing mention in the book, but the idea is hilarious. 
> 
> Coming up in chapter twenty-two: while hiding in a bomb shelter during the blitz, Crowley reveals his struggles of being a pawn of Hell.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two - Soho, 1941

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While hiding in a bomb shelter during the blitz, Crowley reveals his struggles of being a pawn of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who who read, and left kudos and comments! It’s always a pleasure to know you all are enjoying this story! 
> 
> Bit of a heavy chapter, please head the warnings: war, brief discussion of holocaust/concentration camps, trauma/grief (related to being a demon)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two- Soho, 1941**

_In a hastily miracled-up bomb shelter underneath the bookshop:_

  
It sounds like the world is ending. In some ways, it very well might be. The bombs overhead explode against buildings, causing the earth to shake as chunks of stone and wood go flying, and flames shoot up into the night sky, setting the world ablaze. Every explosion sounds like thunder, if thunder were a thousand times louder and far more destructive. 

Beneath a bookshop in Soho, where there wasn’t a bomb shelter before, sit Aziraphale and Crowley, huddled together against the back wall, passing a bottle of wine between them. The shelter, miracled up a few years back, looks almost cozy, if one were to forget the purpose of the room. A small bed, stacks of books, a gramophone, and plenty of wine and blankets occupy the room. Lanterns sit on every available flat surface, lighting the surprisingly sizable room in flickering light.

Another bomb hits nearby, and the earth around them shakes. Aziraphale sighs and takes a long drink from the bottle. They’ve been down here for hours, waiting for the end of yet another Blitz. The angel offers Crowley the bottle, but he turns it down with a wave of his hand, and so Aziraphale drains it, then lets it fall on its side. 

“I wonder how much longer this one will last?” Aziraphale says aloud, if only to have some sound that isn’t the deep rumbling of earth being struck by stone and metal. Crowley doesn’t respond. He hasn’t said much since their meal was interrupted by the sound of air raid sirens. They’d rushed down here, forced to wait it out like everyone else. And other than the occasional comment from Aziraphale, they’ve sat in silence. 

Aziraphale looks over at Crowley. He’s shoulder to shoulder with the angel, but his mind is a thousand miles away. He looks vacant, hollow. His knees are pulled up to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. Aziraphale watches him out of the corner of his eye, worried for the demon, but distracted by the thunderous cacophony of the explosions above. 

He always gets like this, when the bombs fall. 

That isn’t to say Aziraphale isn’t full of his own dread and horror at what’s happening. He is. The day war was declared on Germany he’d retched into a waste bin, then wept for so long he lost track of time. Not that he’s ever been that good at keeping it. But now the days blur together even more; hours and days are spent in the underground shelter waiting…. waiting… waiting… 

It’s been hard. No, it’s been excruciating. But the angel knows they have it easy compared to so many others. And it’s why he’s so determined to help; to be of use. He can’t stomach another stint as a nurse on the frontlines, and unsurprisingly, Heaven hasn’t uttered a word about what’s going on. He’s had a couple small missions, even in the midst of a worldwide war, but none of them have been directly related to those events. It makes Aziraphale sick. It’s why the bookshop is now a passing point for refugees who manage to escape Germany and Austria. He and Crowley house them in the bookshop- miracled to avoid any suspicion, naturally. Aziraphale has taken to forgery quite well under Crowley’s tutelage, and together they create entirely new identities for families seeking freedom to simply exist. 

Aziraphale blesses as many as he can. Crowley plays with kids and teaches them harmless little pranks to make them smile. They watch with pained thumps in their chest as each person, each family, is ushered away by a member of the network the angel is a part of, and he spends days afterward wondering what will become of the people who pass through the bookshop. 

Another bomb falls nearby. The world shakes. Aziraphale trembles. 

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut.

When the rumbles stop, Aziraphale reaches out a hand to rest on Crowley back. The demon stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m fine, angel,” he murmurs into his arms. 

“You’re clearly not,” Aziraphale says simply. He doesn’t know what’s going through Crowley’s head. The demon hasn’t been distant, exactly- he’s still loving and affectionate though he’d be offended to know Aziraphale thinks of him with such terminology- but there’s a sorrow in his eyes that Aziraphale can’t seem to name. He wishes Crowley would talk to him, but he knows better than to press. 

The war is affecting everyone in different ways. Aziraphale especially. He feels disillusioned, dismayed. Heaven is absent. He knows he hasn’t Fallen, hasn’t lost Her grace, but he feels more than ever that Heaven has lost him. He doesn’t understand how a horrible occasion such as this would be something they turn a blind eye to, but there’s nothing. Only deafening silence in between the thunderous crashing of bombs. 

It makes Aziraphale sick. It makes him want to march up there and demand they explain themselves.  _ We’re supposed to care about humans, _ he thinks bitterly,  _ so why is it that out of all the multitudes in Heaven, it all comes down to one angel and one demon? How can the two of us love everyone enough to make up for Heaven’s ambivalence?  _

“I can practically hear you thinking, angel.” 

Aziraphale blinks. Crowley is sitting cross-legged, staring at him with worried, furrowed brows. Aziraphale breathes in sharply. 

“Apologies, darling. Lost in my own head.” 

“Care to share?” 

A look crosses the angel’s face, but he quickly covers it with an indulgent smile. The irony of Crowley asking him to share when he himself is holding something back is not unnoticed, but Aziraphale doesn’t really feel like picking at that wound tonight. Unless this is an opportunity to get Crowley to open up. Maybe he wants to talk, but just doesn’t want to be the only one vulnerable. 

Aziraphale sighs. What does he have to lose? They’re going to be in this bomb shelter all night anyway- he may as well take the opportunity that’s presented to him. 

“Just lamenting how utterly horrid Heaven’s behavior has been regarding…” he pauses, then sighs, “Well…  _ everything,  _ really.” 

Crowley snorts. “Not exactly a  _ new  _ thing though, issit?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, “Unfortunately not,” he says, wincing as another bomb hits, closer this time. The room shakes hard, a few books falling from where they’re stacked on top of one another. The angel doesn’t bother getting up to right them yet. It’s pointless, really. They’ll just fall again when the next bomb strikes. 

As a particularly harsh tremor courses through the earth from the impact, Crowley whimpers and throws out his hand, grabbing the angel’s as he squeezes his eyes shut. Aziraphale covers his hand with his own, and they ride out the shockwaves. Aziraphale can swear he smells smoke.

Finally things settle for the moment. Crowley opens one eye, then slowly the other, posture relaxing just a fraction. Aziraphale studies Crowley for a long moment. He says nothing, just stares at their entwined hands, and finally, the angel can take it no longer. 

“I wish you would tell me what’s wrong.” 

Crowley’s head snaps up. His gaze narrows. “What makes you think something’s wrong? Besides everything?” 

Aziraphale gives Crowley a pointed look.  _ “Crowley,”  _ he says in that tone the demon knows to mean  _ I’m not letting this go so you may as well give me what I want.  _

“It’ll just upset you,” he says lamely, pulling himself away from the angel and moving to the book pile. He begins to right the books that fell, then uses a miracle to keep them bound in their place. 

“I’m already upset, darling,” Aziraphale remarks dryly, “I’m not sure it’s possible to be  _ more _ upset.”

“Oh, it is,” Crowley remarks as he flips through a first edition of  _ Paradise Lost.  _ “And I don’t want to cause you more worry. Worry’s not a good look on you.” 

“I am  _ perpetually  _ worried about nearly  _ everything _ , Crowley, so  _ thank you  _ for that confidence booster.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You’re perfectly handsome and you know it,” he remarks dryly, putting  _ Paradise Lost  _ back in the stack and pulling out another book. 

“I don’t know any such thing,” Aziraphale huffs, “And you are changing the subject. I wish you would talk to me, Crowley. Whatever is plaguing you, we can deal with it together.” 

“We can’t, actually.” 

“And you know this for a fact?” 

Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale sighs. They neither one speak again for several minutes. Aziraphale watches as Crowley flips through the books- he’s careful, of course he is- but he’s clearly trying to distract himself from whatever is eating away at him. Whatever’s been eating away at him since the war began. He looks sickly, if such a thing were feasible. 

Determined, Aziraphale stands on legs stuffed with pins and needles from sitting so long, and moves to Crowley. He catches the demon’s hands in his, and holds them tight. “I won’t force you,” he says softly, “But darling, I wish you’d let me in. We are all each other has, and I don’t want you to think you can’t talk to me. I love you, and have for so very long. Whatever this is won’t change that.” 

Crowley’s eyes squeeze shut, and when they open, tears have formed, sliding down his cheeks. He wrenches one hand away and wipes them away in shame. 

He’s silent for several seconds, refusing to look at the angel while his body rebels against his wishes and continues to form tears. Finally, he speaks, soft and ashamed: “Hell told me to go to Germany.” 

The angel stiffens, eyes wide in horror. “What? When?” 

The demon shrugs. “Thirty...five? Six? They sent me instructions to go and… encourage… things. They seemed to think I had a hand in riling things back up. They-“ he stops short, swallows thickly, “They’re giving me a  _ commendation _ , Aziraphale. For the camps.”

Understanding settles like cement in Aziraphale’s chest. “Oh, darling-“ 

“And I  _ can’t  _ refuse it!” He says, voice shrill and angry, “I can’t say, ‘oh, geez, thanks guys but I really had nothing to do with this and actually find it bloody  _ repulsive _ ’ because I’m a  _ fucking demon _ and I’m  _ supposed  _ to  _ want  _ this kind of thing. I’m supposed to  _ celebrate  _ the torture and murder of innocents, angel! I should be positively  _ thriving _ in the hatred and chaos that’s going on out there, but I  _ can’t  _ because it makes me sick, and I can’t decide if I’m glad of that or not! I’m fucking  _ broken; _ a shitty demon who can’t do what I’m supposed to do and I can’t do what I  _ want _ to do, because then Hell will-“ he stops short and growls, angrily wiping away tears as they fall- “Hell will not be pleased if they learn I ignored direct orders. I can lie, and I will… but… I was a shite angel, and now I’m a shite demon! And it’s driving me mad, Aziraphale!” 

Wordlessly, Aziraphale takes Crowley into his arms, holding him tight as his own tears form and fall. “Oh, my love,” he breathes, “I wish you’d told me sooner. You shouldn’t have to carry this alone.” 

Slowly, Crowley arms wrap around Aziraphale, squeezing him tight. “It’s not your burden to bear, angel,” he murmurs, “I’m the demon. I shouldn’t even be feeling the way I do. I should be reveling in the destruction. Creating more.” 

“You’re not  _ just  _ a demon,” Aziraphale says with a bit more edge than perhaps he intended. He leans back and cups Crowley’s chin in his hands, urging the demon to look at him. “You’re Crowley. Anthony J., to be precise. And I am Aziraphale. If you’re a poor demon, then you’re in good company because I’m rather rubbish at being an angel.” 

Crowley scoffs. “You do bloody good, all the time,” he counters, “You’re doing good now: helping those families that I, by all accounts, should be trying to get recaptured.” 

“You should have to do nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale snaps, “You are helping those families, Crowley, and you are doing it by lying, by manipulating government documents, by forgery, by blackmail, even! You don’t relish murder and cruelty! You never have! You- I won’t insult you and tell you that you’re good, but you are certainly not evil. Not in the way that wretched Hitler and his ilk are. You could never be. And I love you for it.” 

Crowley considers Aziraphale’s words for a moment. “Too good for Hell,” he cringes at the word, “And not good enough for Heaven.”

“And I don’t know what I am, but it certainly isn’t in line with what Heaven approves of,” the angel remarks, “So do you know where that leaves us?” 

“Where, angel?” 

“Here.” 

Crowley glances around, unimpressed. “A hastily miracled together bomb shelter?” 

Aziraphale lightly smacks his chest. “You’re being obtuse on purpose, you fiend,” he remarks with a hint of playfulness, “Earth. We exist in some strange shade of grey- horrified by what our sides do… or don’t do… and determined to do what’s best for humans, by any means necessary. Comfort where we can; breaking the human’s law when they are unjust.” 

Crowley smirks. “The guardian and the tempter- single handedly helping the human race.” Crowley moves to sit on the bed, beckoning the angel to join him. Aziraphale sits and pulls Crowley to him, letting the demon curl up in his arms. “Not a bad gig, I s’pose.” 

“We are rather good at it. Both parts.” 

“You are a pretty good tempter,” Crowley concedes with a small, sheepish smile.

“And you can hand out blessings with the best of them, my darling,” Aziraphale says affectionately, rubbing his thumb over Crowley’s cheek. Crowley sighs and relaxes into the comfort of Aziraphale’s touch. “And I’m not angry,” he adds after a moment, “Though I do wish you had told me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says softly, after a moment. “I don’t know why I didn’t… I just couldn’t bear the thought of you thinking ill of me. So I just…”

“Kept it buried. And every time the bombs come, you can’t help but think that Hell will credit you for their destruction.” 

“I’m not a book, angel; stop reading me like one,” Crowley huffs, but there’s no venom to it. Just weariness; exhaustion. 

“You’re much better than a book, my darling,” Aziraphale says, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple, “And you know how fond I am of my books.” 

“Do I ever,” Crowley grumbles, rolling his eyes. Aziraphale chooses not to point out he’s smiling. 

“It is disorienting,” Aziraphale acknowledges after a while, “To feel so detached from what you know you should be. But I’ve always felt more at home with humans. With you. I can’t explain it- I’m probably too afraid to try, really- but I can’t imagine a better existence than the one I’ve spent here with you.”

“It has been pretty good,” Crowley admits, “Current situation not included.” 

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale agrees, “But this too shall pass. And we will help them rebuild- again; as we always do. And then we will most likely watch as they knock it all down, and the cycle will repeat.”

“Lead balloons,” Crowley murmurs after a moment. Aziraphale hums in agreement. 

“Lead balloons,” he echos. 

They fall silent at that, and simply rest as they wait for the night to end. At some point they doze, but eventually Crowley wakes up, groggy and stiff. He gently shakes Aziraphale awake. The angel sits up with a groan. 

“What time is it?” He mumbles as he stretches. 

Crowley shrugs. “You won’t let me keep a wireless down here, so I don’t know.” 

“We don’t  _ need _ a wireless-“ 

“It’s the future, Aziraphale.”

“My gramophone is in excellent shape, thank you very much,” he protests as he stands, tugging on his clothing to try and smooth out the wrinkles before realizing he can simply snap and miracle them away. 

“It doesn’t tell you the news.” 

“The news is  _ depressing,” _ he argues, “And there’s nothing like reading the day's events in a newspaper.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Shall we go up and see the damage?”

“Lets,” Aziraphale says as he stands and takes the demon’s hand. 

—

The bookshop is safe, of course. But much of the area has been badly damaged. People are digging through rubble, trying to salvage lives, supplies, memories. Together they help a few families as best they can, and Aziraphale even miracles up some tea in a kettle that never seems to grow cold or empty. 

Later as they make their way to Mayfair to check on Crowley’s apartment, Aziraphale muses, “Perhaps you could still go to Germany.” 

Crowley tenses. Looks sharply at Aziraphale. “Angel…” 

“You could spy,” Aziraphale continues, “Pretend to be a sympathizer and gather intel; smuggle out more people. It would be dangerous, but right up your alley, I think. Tempt those awful men into trusting you, report to British Intelligence. Might even be fun.” 

“Fun?” 

“I don’t know- being a spy does seem rather thrilling,” he reasons as they arrive to see the building is damaged. They venture inside; Crowley’s sparse belongings are a bit singed and smoky, but otherwise fine. Crowley kicks over the coffee table absently, contemplating the state of his place, the war, the angel’s suggestion. He  _ is _ supposed to be there, after all. What he does is all a bit subjective, after that. 

Behind him, Aziraphale is pointlessly tidying up while he continues to rationalize his suggestion. “I could perhaps get some work done there, as well. Oh! We could work together as undercover agents! We know people in British Military Intelligence! Perhaps they could get us in! What do you think?”

Crowley turns and regards Aziraphale. His flat is a mess, though he’s not concerned with that. His possessions are things he is rather detached from, emotionally, and are only there to make it seem as if he is a human. The only thing in this place he cares about is the angel standing across the room from him. The angel currently suggesting they go to Germany in the middle of the Second Great War in an effort to save more people and piss off some nazis in the process. 

For the first time in a few years, Crowley feels oddly optimistic. 

Crossing the room, Crowley grabs Aziraphale by the lapels and kisses him soundly. “I think I love you, Aziraphale,” he says softly. 

“And I love you, my darling.”

He kisses the angel again, then wraps his arms around the shorter being’s shoulders and looks out at the world around them. He hates Hell. Hates Heaven. Hates that the two of them are stuck where they are, bound to their respective sides, forced to bend and weave the rules  _ just so,  _ in an effort to do what’s best for earth. For them. 

_ One day,  _ Crowley vows,  _ one day we will be free. I won’t let Aziraphale be bound by Heaven forever, and I refuse to be a puppet of Hell for the rest of my life. One day, I’m going to save us.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a demon is all fun and games until you remember that that Hell relishes things like torture and murder and death. Being associated with something so disgusting and reprehensible makes Crowley genuinely ill. In the book he was deeply upset when he was given credit for the Spanish Inquisition, and I think that Hell thinking he was involved in something like this would really fuck with him. It’s one thing to be a demon. It’s another thing entirely to actually be evil. And it’s really starting to weigh on him, what he’s expected to be as a demon. He didn’t sign up for this. 
> 
> Coming up in chapter twenty-three: Crowley and Aziraphale get a small taste of freedom; but nothing lasts forever.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three - 1962, Centennial (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale get a small taste of freedom; but nothing lasts forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All these “Crowley wakes up” posts have me feeling soft af. I’m a sucker for fluff. 
> 
> And angst. As we’re about to see. 😬
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three - 1962, Centennial (Part I)**

“I’m so glad we decided to do this,” Aziraphale says as he sips his wine, looking out at the sunset that’s sinking below the horizon, leaving the air pleasantly cool. Aziraphale, dressed in just his button down and trousers, snuggles closer to Crowley under their shared blanket. They’d pulled out a lounge seat onto the balcony just after dinner to watch the sunset, and Crowley had flopped onto it, pulling Aziraphale down to recline against his chest. 

The Italian villa Crowley had found for them is stunning. It’s right on the coast, conveniently vacant, and most importantly, private. “I do occasionally have good ideas, angel,” Crowley remarks teasingly as he snatches the slice of cheese in Aziraphale’s hand and swallows it down in one bite. 

“Rude.” 

The demon grins, then picks up another piece from the plate on the table next to them and holds it to Aziraphale’s lips. “Let me make it up to you.” 

The angel rolls his eyes affectionately, and lets Crowley feed him the slice. The gesture is followed by a kiss on the cheek, causing Aziraphale to sigh contentedly before picking up his wine glass. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, then holds his glass up. “What shall we toast to?” 

“Dunno,” Crowley says lazily, “To fancy little Italian villas where we can spend our anniversary,” he says at last. 

“To one hundred years of marriage,” Aziraphale replies fondly. 

“To one hundred days of doing whatever the fuck we want in celebration,” Crowley says before clinking his glass to Aziraphale’s, then tilting it back and drinking the whole thing down. When he’s done he places the glass back on the table in favor of wrapping his arm around Aziraphale’s stomach. He loves having the angel close; loves having this soft comfort and romance. He’d never admit to it- instead claiming he’s merely indulging the angel- but deep down he longs for this. For this affection; for this simplicity. He longs for a future where this isn’t a special occasion. He wants this to be their  _ life _ . 

Days upon days of leisurely evenings watching the sunset, wrapped in each other’s arms. Mornings where they can lie in, make love, and then get up well after noon to hunt for a new restaurant to try. Weekends in the country; weeks wandering landscapes they haven’t visited in centuries. No obligations to head offices or duties to fulfill. Just a happy retirement together- it’s a dream Crowley has only recently realized, and though he knows a demon shouldn’t have any kind of hope, something stirs in his chest at the thought of that future being even remotely possible. 

“You’re brooding,” Aziraphale says, sitting up and turning to look at Crowley. The space between them is now unpleasantly cold, and Crowley glares before tugging the angel back to him. 

“Not brooding,” he replies grumpily, “Just… thinking.” 

“You look like you’re brooding,” Aziraphale says, laughing as Crowley pokes his side. 

“Fine, you caught me,” Crowley says, leaning forward to rest his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, “I’m a big, scary demon who is broodily thinking about how he wants to drag his husband back to bed and have his  _ wicked _ way with him.” 

He follows up the words with a gentle nibble on the angel’s earlobe, then trails down to take a few teasing, biting kisses against Aziraphale’s cheek. Against him, the angel shivers. He presses against Crowley and tilts his head, allowing the demon to continue his way down the angel’s jaw. Aziraphale lifts a hand to clutch at the back of Crowley’s neck. His hair is longer now, almost chin length. It’s the longest it’s been in an age, and Aziraphale is personally grateful the human’s fashion has once more shown favor to men with longer hair. He loves Crowley’s hair like this. He loves it regardless, but this longer length reminds him of when they’d first met- and how his fingers had itched to comb through those messy curls. 

“Have away, my love,” Aziraphale breathes, sighing softly as Crowley’s hands begin to wander, brushing over his chest and down to his hips, his thighs. He slides his fingers back up, unbuttoning the angel’s shirt as he trails heated kisses against Aziraphale’s neck, sucking and nibbling in teasing turns that leaves the angel struggling not to make an obscene noise.  _ “Darling, please.”  _

“Whatever you want, Aziraphale.” 

“I’ve only ever wanted you,” Aziraphale remarks softly, sincere despite Crowley’s best efforts to tease. The words make Crowley falter. He can feel the lust building up within the angel, just as he’s sure Aziraphale can feel his love. Crowley knows better than to equate the two- one is pure; the other primal- but he’s learned over the years that when Aziraphale truly lets himself bask in the lust Crowley inspires within him, it’s his way of letting Crowley get a taste of that which he is incapable of sensing. Crowley can’t feel Aziraphale’s love, but the angel has managed to take the lust that ignites in his veins from Crowley’s touch and express his love anyway. It leaves Crowley breathless each and every time. 

“Then come to bed,” he growls, unable to resist any longer. 

Aziraphale lets out a sharp exhale, skin prickled with goose flesh in his excitement, and he stands, arousal straining his trousers as he tugs Crowley up to kiss him. It’s a deep, desperate sort of kiss. The kind often reserved for lovers who have been parted for an age. It’s the kind of passion Shakespeare wrote of, in his tragic tale of star-crossed lovers. It’s not the kind of desperation one imagines for a couple happily married. But it’s there all the same, an underlying foundation to their very relationship: that by all rights they shouldn’t have this. 

And yet, despite everything, they do. 

They move into the bedroom, stumbling a little from their unwillingness to part from one another for even a moment. They fall to the bed in a giggling tangle of limbs, Crowley pressed into the mattress while Aziraphale hovers over him, looking radiant in the last rays of the light from the setting sun. “You got me,” he says breathlessly, “So what are you gonna do with me?” 

“Oh, I rather think it should be you who does the doing,” Aziraphale says coyly, laughing when Crowley blusters at the angel’s language. 

“I’m rubbing off on you,” Crowley remarks proudly, rising up just enough to kiss Aziraphale. 

“I wish you would,” the angel moans, causing Crowley to break away with a laugh. 

“Walked you right into that one,” he grins. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. 

“You seem to enjoy it when I choose to be crude, so I thought I’d treat you a little.” 

“Yeah, because it’s hilarious when it comes out of your fussy little angelic mouth,” Crowley says, feeling full of wonder and delight as he looks at Aziraphale. “Gonna get you to  _ really  _ blaspheme in bed one day- I can  _ feel  _ it.” 

Aziraphale harrumphs and lowers his hips to grind against Crowley’s, making the demon’s eyes go out of focus for a moment as pleasure shoots through him. “You’ll have to do better than this, then.” 

Crowley manages a smirk that isn’t nearly as cocky as he’d like to think it is. “Well. If you insist.” He snaps his fingers, making all their clothing vanish. He barely finishes the snap before his hand sweeps down and wraps around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him down until they’re pressed as close as possible, then rolls them over until he’s on top. Aziraphale gasps at the sudden change, looking up at Crowley with surprise and amusement. 

“Cheeky.” 

The demon pats Aziraphale’s side, as close to his ass as he can reach for the moment, earning him a snort as the angel rolls his eyes at Crowley’s ridiculousness. He leans down and captures the amused smile with his own lips, drawing Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his own sharp teeth, nipping playfully before releasing him and then diving back in, mouth moving with languid sweeps over Aziraphale’s mouth, before pressing gently inside, the slide of their lips together sweet like the wine they’d enjoyed earlier. 

Aziraphale sighs into the kiss. He loves kissing Crowley; finds the act has never once lost its newness, its splendor. Kissing Crowley on their one hundred year wedding anniversary excites him just as it did that first time, when he’d been overwhelmed and scared and eager to let the demon know just how much he cared. Crowley is fond of big acts- ones he could certainly write off as demonic genius at work, but nevertheless thoughtful demonstrations of his admiration for the angel. The coffeehouse, the bookshop,  _ Hamlet _ … there are so many cornerstones of history that have Crowley’s fingerprint on it- and it’s there  _ for _ Aziraphale. Time has put considerable distance between them and those moments, but they have yet to lose their impact when Aziraphale thinks on them. 

So much of the world has his and Crowley’s fingerprints on it. So much of the world has been touched by their hands; so much of the world has touched them in turn. Aziraphale can scarcely remember a time when he wasn’t on earth, fascinated with humans and their creative brilliance. He can scarcely remember a time without Crowley. Certainly he existed for an eon without the demon, but a time before Crowley isn’t really a time worth remembering. 

Before Crowley. B. C. Aziraphale giggles, causing Crowley to stop pressing kisses down his chest to look up at him curiously. 

“Don’t mind me,” the angel says as he tugs Crowley back down to kiss him softly, “Just happy.” 

—

From Italy they travel to Amsterdam, then India. They have no set travel plans; they merely go where their whimsy leads them. After India- which had been Crowley’s idea- the angel fancies a trip to New Zealand. They stay for two weeks, because they can, and then visit America for a few days before both decide that the country is decidedly Too Much for them and they make their way to Norway. 

They spend their days in relative peace. Aziraphale does a few small miracles everywhere he goes- minor blessings, letting people have a good day, easing their worries, giving one poor man the confidence to ask for the promotion he’s long been hoping for. Crowley, for his part, does a few minor demonic miracles that are more harmless pranks than anything else. He glues coins to the pavement, for a start. One afternoon while on a picnic with Aziraphale he torments a local birdwatching group by mimicking the call of a rarely seen but much sought after bird, sending the binocular-clad humans on a wild goose chase. Aziraphale hides his laugh behind his napkin, then after an hour finally tells Crowley to give the poor humans a break. 

He obeys. Eventually. 

The rest of their time is spent trying new restaurants- Aziraphale’s preferred holiday activity- and checking out the latest of human marvels- namely movies. Crowley is quite taken with the adventure of James Bond (and Aziraphale scoffs and remarks with disdain that the book, while still complete drivel, is better). Crowley decides being a secret agent is the Coolest Thing Ever, and spends two weeks straight wearing nothing but the sharpest black tuxedo he can imagine. 

Aziraphale endures the demon’s fascination with the patience of a literal saint. 

When they aren’t enjoying human cuisine or films, they’re in bed (or against a wall, or bent over a desk, or on the floor) exploring one another with the same eager passion they’ve always felt for one another. Crowley likes to take his time, loving Aziraphale to the fullest extent the angel can stand. He loves to whisper words of adoration and praise to the angel, loves to slowly kiss and caress his way down Aziraphale’s body, making sure every inch of skin receives the full force of his love. Aziraphale, in turn, loves to ravage Crowley. Loves to hold him tight and move hard and fast, wrecking the demon until he’s so desperate for release he’s nearly incoherent and begging. He loves to whisper his praise against the sweat-slicked skin of Crowley’s neck as he buries himself within himself, telling the demon how wonderful he is, how perfect he is (never good, never kind- but always how beautiful and clever and lovely and worthy he is to receive such attention.) Crowley will never admit it out loud, but he craves those moments. He loves fucking the angel; loves how he falls apart under his touch. But he equally loves when Aziraphale is a little rough with him. Loves how the angel knows just how to combine hard thrusts with soft words that together very nearly make Crowley’s heart drop to his stomach and swirl about viciously, like he’s mid-fall, but the kind that feels like flying, not… the other.

Toward the end of their holiday, they tour England. Crowley is intrigued by the music scene, and wants to stay on top of the up and coming artists he might be able to tempt into stardom, the way he did for Hamlet, but this time for his own indulgent interests. He likes music. So does Aziraphale, but since the fifties they have had more arguments about what is considered music than they’ve argued about anything else. Morality and free will and the nature of their very beings are one thing; the drivel with noisy guitars and banging drums is, to Aziraphale, decidedly  _ not _ music. 

Crowley is interested by a band named after an insect- an odd choice if he does say so himself- but he likes their spunk, and sets a few small events in motion to help the four gents make their way to the top. Aziraphale is, as ever, unimpressed. As a compromise, Crowley also inspires a couple composers who write in a more classical style, for which the angel thanks him most thoroughly. 

—

Finally, one hundred and eight days after their anniversary holiday began, the angel and demon drive in the latter’s Bentley back to the bookshop in Soho. They’re arguing again, because the radio Crowley insisted the Bentley should have since other cars have them, is playing some kind of rock song that Aziraphale is lambasting against. Crowley squeezes the angel’s hand and smiles. It doesn’t matter that Aziraphale is  _ wrong _ . Crowley just likes to see him get riled up. If he plays his cards right (and he always does- he’s a demon after all) Aziraphale will get so irritated with him that they’ll barely make it past the front door of the shop before Crowley is slammed against it and properly ravaged. 

He opens his mouth to make a scathing retort about Aziraphale’s thousandth complaint about the same song when the radio cuts off to static. Both stop short, and Crowley releases the angel’s hand to tap on the radio. Humans tend to poke and prod and smack objects when they don’t work properly, and Crowley has no reason the expect that it won’t work. 

**_HELLO? DEMON CROWLEY?_ **

Despite being in the middle of a busy street, Crowley slams on his breaks. The car behind him doesn’t hit him thanks to a quick angelic miracle. It does cause a traffic jam however, and people begin shouting and yelling at the Bentley stopped halfway through an intersection. 

With a snap, the shouting stops. 

Crowley looks at the radio. Then to Aziraphale, who is staring at the radio as if it had sprouted a head. Which, is close enough to accurate. 

The static hisses again.  **_DEMON CROWLEY ARE YOU THERE?_ **

The demon swallows thickly, then utters out a strained, “Hi, there. Who’s this?” 

**_WHO DO YOU THINK, YOU IDIOT?!_ **

“Ah, yes. Lord Beezlebub. Lovely hearing from you.”

**_SHUT UP. WE NEED TO HAVE A WORD._ **

Crowley can feel angelic eyes on him, wide and worrying. But the angel is staying silent, is scarcely moving, as if anything as small as a breath might alert the Prince of Hell to his presence. Reaching out, Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s hand, for his own assurance as much as for the angel’s. 

“Sure. What’s up?” 

**_HUMANS HAVE CREATED THIS WONDERFUL NEW TECHNOLOGY CALLED A RADIO. IT’S HOW WE ARE COMMUNICATING NOW._ **

It takes every ounce of willpower for Crowley not to make a smart remark. But despite not having seen Beezlebub in millenia, he remembers how cruel they were. He decides he’ll share his sarcasm with Aziraphale later, which might only earn him a scoff and a playful smack. 

**_WE ARE GLAD YOU WERE NEAR ONE. THIS IS SIMPLY TO INFORM YOU THAT THIS IS HOW WE WILL BE COMMUNICATING OUR ORDERS TO YOU FROM NOW ON. YOU WILL NEED TO ENSURE YOU HAVE A RADIO ON YOUR PERSON AT ALL TIMES, SHOULD WE NEED TO GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU._ **

“‘Course,” Crowley squeaks, “Radio. All times. Got it.” He pauses for a moment, then adds weakly, “Is… that all, Lord Beezlebub?” 

**_WE NEED YOU TO SHAKE THINGS UP IN ENGLAND._ **

Beelzebub gives Crowley his instructions, and when they’re finished, the static hisses once more, and the radio goes silent. Crowley and Aziraphale are quiet as well, neither looking at the other. After a moment, Aziraphale wordlessly lifts Crowley’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Crowley turns his head sharply to look at Aziraphale. The angel looks worried, but squeezes Crowley’s hand again, and something in Crowley breaks. 

He flings himself at Aziraphale, hugging the angel tight. He doesn’t cry; he doesn’t have it in him to cry. But he feels wretched, and the only thing that seems to stave off the disgust he feels is the radiating warmth of Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around him. 

After a moment, he feels a kiss to his head, and a soft whisper, “Can you get us to the shop? I imagine you’ll feel better if we can be where there’s no radio.” 

Wordlessly, Crowley nods, and sits back up. He keeps his hand in Aziraphale’s; he’s got a death grip on the angel, he knows. But he also knows just how strong Aziraphale is, and he knows that even at his worst, he probably can’t hurt the angel. 

With his free hand, he snaps his fingers, and the world starts back up again. He hits the gas and speeds off, letting the other drivers sort themselves out. He races to the shop, swerving into the spot where he always parks, and shuts the car off. They sit for a moment, silent and still, then Aziraphale lightly tugs on Crowley’s hand. “Let’s get you inside, dear.” 

Crowley nods, and together they exit the car. Aziraphale decides he’ll worry about luggage later: Crowley is more important right now. 

He unlocks the shop and they move inside. Instantly Aziraphale feels the distinct presence of ethereal essence, and beside him Crowley tenses further. Walking forward, the angel spots a silver-white envelope that reeks of divinity. Aziraphale’s hand clutches at his chest, and he glances back to where Crowley is still leaning against the door looking straight ahead. Even with his sunglasses on, Aziraphale knows a thousand yard stare when he sees one. 

Turning back, he opens the envelope from Heaven. It relays similar instructions to what Crowley received. With a burst of anger, Aziraphale wads up the letter and turns, throwing it across the room where it falls to the floor without any sound or damage. It’s most unsatisfactory. 

“Looks like the honeymoon’s over,” Crowley says in a monotone, finally glancing up to look at Aziraphale. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says, forcing himself to calm down, and focus on Crowley instead. Softly, he steps forward to take Crowley into his arms. “I’m sorry, my love.” 

Crowley says nothing, but does wrap his arms around the angel, holding him tight. “Not your fault, angel. Just…” 

“What, dear?” 

Crowley sighs and pulls back, lifting his sunglasses into his hair. Aziraphale sees where his eyes are glassy, as if he’s been holding back tears. AziraphLe reaches up to gently trace his thumb over the demon’s cheek. 

“For one hundred days I was able to imagine what it was like to be free of them. We were on our own, doing what  _ we _ wanted. When we wanted. How we wanted. And it felt so good, Aziraphale! I liked it just being the two of us; no bosses to demand we do their bidding. No expectations. And now… not only is that dream shattered, but I get to have a  _ more effective  _ method of communicating with my bosses. Fan-fucking-tastic, is what that is.” 

The angel’s hands travel lower, to run up and down Crowley’s arms soothingly. “I know, my dear. It was nice while it lasted. But this is our reality, I’m afraid.” 

“Well it sucks.” 

“I concur.” 

Crowley sighs and runs his hands through his hair, knocking his sunglasses loose. They fall to the ground and crack. The demon glares at them. “I need to go for a drive,” he says, voice rough and dry. “Fast. Just… real fucking fast.”

“Go on,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, releasing Crowley. “If that will help, then do what you must. But-“ he stops. 

“What, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s voice is small, when he says, “Come back to me? When you’re done?” 

Lightning fast, Crowley swoops forward and catches Aziraphale in a deep, heated kiss. “Always, Aziraphale,” he breathes against his lips. “I will  _ always  _ come back to you. Nothing will ever change that. I promise.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale breathes, and then lets Crowley go. “I love you,” he says when Crowley opens the door. 

The demon glances back. “Love you too. I’ll be back.” 

He drives away, speeding as fast as the car will logically go, and then more besides. When the car begins to shake from how fast it’s going, Crowley takes a deep breath, and screams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’d I tell you? 
> 
> Coming up in chapter twenty-four: once back at the bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale talk about what to do next.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four - 1962, Centennial (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once back at the bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale talk about what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four- 1962, Centennial (Part II)**

  
The bell to the bookshop jingles merrily even as the door is carefully opened and closed. It won’t open for anyone else right now, except Crowley. He takes a few steps, inhaling a breath to call out for Aziraphale when the angel appears, glasses perched on his nose and a book in his hand. 

Crowley knows he hasn’t been reading. If he were, he’d have never heard the door open. It’s a ruse, to make Crowley think Aziraphale hasn’t spent the past four hours simply sitting and fretting. It’s a sweet gesture, but one Crowley sees right through. 

“Hey,” he says simply, walking forward and throwing his arms over the angel’s shoulders. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale breathes, softly returning the embrace. “Feel any better?” 

The demon leans back, moves one hand to push his sunglasses up into his hair. He doesn’t need a mirror to see how haggard and tired he looks, but he knows Aziraphale appreciates being able to read his expression when words fail him. Like now. 

“No. Maybe? I don’t know.” 

“Well, let’s go sit down, shall we?” He suggests, leading Crowley to the sofa. He lets the demon sink into the cushions, then steps away. “How about some wine?”

“Sure, angel,” Crowley says wearily. Aziraphale putters about for a couple minutes, then returns with two bottles of wine; no glasses. Crowley smirks briefly at the utter impropriety of it all, and takes a large swig out of his own bottle. Usually the angel likes to savor his vintages. Tonight that doesn’t seem to be a priority. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks softly, taking a rather daintier sip than his husband. Crowley shrugs and leans forward, swirling the wine in the bottle absently. 

“Prob’ly should,” he muses, “My husband doesn’t like it when I keep things from him.” He turns his head to give Aziraphale a small, playful little smile that doesn’t feel as lighthearted as he’d like. Aziraphale offers him a sobering half smile in return. 

“He worries, is all. Probably too much.” 

Crowley watches Aziraphale for a long moment, then lets his head hang once more. The chin length waves fall into his eyes, obscuring his face from Aziraphale, and the angel’s fingers itch with the desire to brush that hair back, to replace those wisps of hair brushing Crowley’s cheek with kisses. He stays still. 

Crowley lets out a long sigh. “S’pose I’m just…” he trails off for a long while, then falls back against the back of the couch. He takes a breath, then, “I want out.” 

Aziraphale blinks, not exactly confused by what Crowley means, but a touch surprised that he’s voicing it so plainly. They’ve frequently had deep, intense discussions, but so often both tend to side step what it is they really mean, at least at first. Apparently Crowley isn’t in the mood for that today. But Aziraphale chooses to give him the opportunity to expand, or retract, as he sees fit. 

“Out?” 

“Out,” Crowley repeats. “I want to quit. I don’t want to do Hell’s bidding anymore. I’m not-“ he pauses, head falling back as he stares blankly up at the ceiling, “Temptations are all well and good,” he says, then makes a face, “Or- you know what I mean. Anyway. Tempting is one thing. Whispering little things in their ear, encouraging them to act on their desires-“ 

“Gluing coins to the pavement,” Aziraphale mutters dryly. 

“Hey,” Crowley remarks, turning his head to look at Aziraphale, “That is a  _ classic.”  _

“Of course,” Aziraphale says indulgently. 

“Anyway,” Crowley says as his head lolls back to stare up at the ceiling once more. His fingers drum absently on his legs, anxious and unsettled, “I enjoy meddling about with politicians and getting them shamed out of Parliament. I like little temptations- it really is an art form. One I’ve perfected. But… encouraging murder, all these… injustices?” Crowley shakes his head, face scrunched up in disgust, “I’m not about that. Never was. And the longer we go on, the more bloodthirsty Hell gets. And the more bloodthirsty  _ they  _ get, the more I have to accept that I’m…”

“Not,” Aziraphale offers. 

“Not,” Crowley agrees. “So,” he sighs, shrugging as if they weren’t talking about something as serious as this: “I want out.”

Aziraphale sits silently, pondering Crowley’s words. It isn’t that he disagrees, he just doesn’t really know what to say. What to do. This is treasonous talk, and that makes Aziraphale nervous by its own merit. But to talk about quitting and to actually do it are two very different things, and Aziraphale doesn’t know if he should offer obligatory support and hope Crowley drops the subject, or if he should actively support his husband in something that clearly means so much to him. He looks down at his wedding ring- the ring Crowley had given him to inspire courage. Courage in the face of his fears. Aziraphale thinks for a long moment, then looks up at Crowley, and the answer is as clear as crystal. As bright and shining, too. 

“Then you should quit.”

Crowley smiles softly at those words. “Wish it were that easy.” 

“There has to be a way,” Aziraphale muses, “Surely there is a way to leave Hell’s service.” He waits a moment, then adds, with a lump in his throat, “There has to be a way to get out of service to Heaven.” 

Golden eyes snap to Aziraphale, wide with the same dear Aziraphale feels. “You’re not Falling.” 

“I’m not talking about Falling,” Aziraphale huffs, even though that thought  _ had _ crossed his mind. Not that he wants to fall. He doesn’t. That would do nothing more than allow the metaphorical leash he’s wearing to simply change hands. No, he wants the collar to come off. “But I must confess that I too have grown weary of our demanded allegiance to our respective sides.” 

The sharp gaze softens, and Crowley scoots a little closer. “I never thought you would want to stop being an agent of Heaven.” 

Aziraphale sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t  _ want _ to stop,” he admits softly, moving as well to press closer to his husband, “I  _ like _ helping people. But I despise so much of what Heaven has… well,  _ not _ done. I am supposed to do all these ridiculous things, yet when my abilities would be most useful- during plagues, and wars… stopping social injustices… they tell me to stay put, stay silent. It’s not my place. Not my problem. And I can’t stand it! I don’t want to be idle in service to Heaven. I want to be  _ active _ in service to humans.” 

Crowley sits up a little straighter, eyes wide. 

“I get you to properly blaspheme, and we aren’t even in bed.” 

Aziraphale scoffs. “I do hope that sex isn’t on your mind right now, my dear. This is a serious conversation.”

Slowly, Crowley presses closer to Aziraphale. There’s a tired, timid smile on his lips. “I’m a demon,” he explains simply, “If I can inspire some lust, well…” he shrugs. 

“Darling,” the angel says, longsuffering, “I married you. I am thoroughly tempted by you in every way and at all times. But we are talking about potentially committing treason against our respective sides, and while that might be arousing for you, it’s terrifying for me, so forgive me for not exactly being the most receptive to your advances.” 

Crowley whines, but doesn’t press further.  _ “Fine.” _ Shifting, he leans closer, resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel adjusts so he can hold Crowley to him, and lets his chin rest on the demon’s temple. They stay curled up together in silence for a bit, before Crowley remarks softly, “Nice dream, though… freedom.”

“It is.” 

“Rest of eternity, just lounging about with you. No obligations to anything but each other.”

“It’s a lovely fantasy,” Aziraphale breathes, wishing with all his heart it could be a reality. “Maybe someday, perhaps.” 

They fall silent. Crowley takes the opportunity to catch his breath, to let his mind slow down and to halt the frantic jumps to conclusions he’d been making during his drive. It’s maddening, to feel like a chained dog, only given a little leeway at the whim of a master who likes to sharply tug on the leash for fun. But there’s something about knowing Aziraphale feels the same that makes the despair manageable. 

Eventually those thoughts settle and Crowley’s mind drifts into a haze of quiet exhaustion. He’s floating, halfway to nodding off against Aziraphale when the angel speaks. 

“Maybe it’s time for a new arrangement,” he says softly. 

Crowley stiffens in his arms. He’d pull back to look at Aziraphale, but something in him fears that if he pulls back now, he’ll never get the chance to feel this again. 

“What?” 

“I think perhaps we ought to update the arrangement we established back in Rome. Or, I suppose, put it  _ back  _ into place, in a sense.” 

Crowley shakes his head, cheek rubbing against the angel’s shoulder. “I can’t go back to a life of not being with you. Telling you I love you. Please don’t do that to me, Aziraphale.” 

“Oh goodness, no,” Aziraphale says, a laugh startling out of him. “Certainly not, my dear!” He wraps his arms tighter around Crowley as if to emphasize his point. “No, I don’t think I could stop now that I’m so used to those things either. I simply meant that we take some updated precautions for the new era.” 

Crowley sits up then, no longer afraid that it’ll be the last touch he receives. “What do you have in mind?” 

Aziraphale purses his lips in thought, and it’s all Crowley can do to keep from leaning forward and kissing them. “No radios in here, for a start,” Aziraphale decides, “We keep your radio shut off when I ride with you in the Bentley, which perhaps I should do a bit less now. Walking has unfortunately gone out of fashion in this modern age of automobiles.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it breaks your heart not to have to ride in the Bentley,” Crowley says dryly. 

“I don’t have any qualms with the automobile itself,” Aziraphale snips, “I take issue with your horrid driving.” 

Crowley leans back, affronted. “Excuse me! Have I wrecked? Have I hit anyone or anything? Have I gotten you to wherever you want to go  _ safely _ and in  _ record time?” _

“Thanks to several hastily thrown out miracles,  _ no,” _ Aziraphale responds with just as much sass as Crowley has given. 

Crowley glares at Aziraphale, who is glaring right back. After a moment however, Crowley cracks, and a smile breaks out on his face. Large, genuine, and perhaps a bit goofy. “I love you, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale continues to glare, but there’s a flicker of a smile that ghosts across his lips, faint and gone in an instant, but Crowley sees it all the same. “Don’t you try and change the subject,” Aziraphale demands, “We are  _ arguing.”  _

With an indulgent laugh, Crowley moves and slides one leg over Aziraphale, straddling the angel’s thighs and settling against him, pressed chest to chest. Aziraphale’s hands instantly rise to clutch his hips. 

“No radios,” Crowley agrees, “Less driving together in the Bentley. Anything else?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says, dropping the act of play fighting to seriously think. “I suppose we don’t know if they can communicate any other way. Why a radio? What is it about that device that allows them to reach you? Can they do it with other devices that require electricity?” 

“Not sure,” Crowley remarks, “I could go down there and ask-“ 

_ “No.”  _ The angel’s time leaves no room for argument. “I don’t want you going down there.” 

“Well  _ I _ don’t really want to go either,” Crowley says, “It was just a suggestion.” 

“Let’s just… be cautious,” Aziraphale decides. “No electronic devices.” 

Crowley shifts. “I’m not giving up my television. Or my phone.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Fine. Then I declare the  _ bookshop _ an electronic device free zone. I already have the telephone,” he says, glaring at the object as if it’s mere presence is a great insult- which it is. “I’ll keep the phone, simply because it’s necessary for business,” he says with a harsh roll of his eyes, “But nothing else. Any fancy gadgets that you want can stay at your flat.” 

“Works for me,” Crowley says simply, “I’m hardly there, anyway. Though I may need to start popping in once a week or so, just to keep up appearances.”

“Probably for the best,” Aziraphale agrees, then lets out a sigh, “I feel a little more at ease,” he admits, “Though I wish we weren’t in his wretched spot.” 

Crowley smirks. Aziraphale gives him a questioning look. “What?” 

“I'm in a rather lovely spot,” he says, shifting his hips against Aziraphale. The angel’s breath hitches, but he uses his grip on Crowley to still the movements. 

“Of  _ all _ the times to try and seduce me-“ 

“Not seduction,” Crowley corrects, “I’m coming on to you.”

“The difference being?” Aziraphale asks, unimpressed. 

Crowley leans close, “If I were seducing you, you wouldn’t be arguing with me right now.” 

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch on Crowley’s hips. The demon knows all too well that Aziraphale likes it when Crowley messes with him like this, blurring the lines between a proper seduction and a husband simply seeking some affection. 

“Not until I ensure that you’re alright,” Aziraphale insists, “Please don’t try to distract me from your pain with sex. I will happily let you have your way with me in a moment, but please… are you alright?” 

Crowley sags against the angel, all pretenses dropped. “No,” he admits after a moment, “I’m not alright.” He reaches up and takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing the angel’s plump cheeks. Crowley leans in, studying the angel’s face. The storm-cloud eyes, the soft lips, all of him. He takes him in, watches him for a long moment, then rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “But we’re together,” he whispers, “And I’d endure anything to make sure that never changes.” 

“Maybe someday we won’t have to endure anything,” Aziraphale breathes, clutching Crowley close to him. “Maybe someday we can just  _ be.  _ Just the two of us.” 

“Just us,” Crowley repeats, “You and me. On our own side.”

“Our own side,” Aziraphale smiles. “I rather like the sound of that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the holy water argument were to happen, it would have happened here. And I went back and forth about 10 times trying to decide if I wanted to explore that, and how it would be different since they’re married. But ultimately, I opted against bringing that bit in. I have used show!canon bits (Shakespeare, Golgotha, etc) but I also wanted to explore other times/scenarios that weren’t pulled from the show. So, while I know a few people have been waiting for the shoe to drop regarding holy water, I finally decided to not include it. Even upon this last edit right before posting I was debating on adding it in, but I have other things I want to do with the story, and we’ve only got 4 chapters left (😱) so its officially left out. Which isn’t a bad thing. It just is. But I did want to at least make a note as to why it’s not included. 
> 
> Speaking of not included, I also originally wasn’t going to do the Oscar Wilde trilogy since it’s been done so many times. Nothing wrong with that, but I had an idea to explore a similar relationship that doesn’t currently exist in fanon: Crowley and Mary Shelley. I was going to flip the script and have a female presenting Crowley be friends with Mary and offer comfort to Mary upon the death of her husband, Percy Bysche Shelley. Then I read about their life in the weeks before he died and just... slowly X’ed out of the internet browser and tossed that idea in the garbage. I won’t get into details, but it was too dark and depressing for even this fucking downer of a fic, and I wasn’t about to touch that shit with a ten foot pole, so.... OSCAR! 
> 
> Anyway. Enough rambling. I’m gonna go watch Hamilton. Love you all! 
> 
> Coming up in chapter twenty-five: mankind’s greatest achievement thus far brings up memories of Crowley’s time before the Fall.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five- Mayfair, 1969

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mankind’s greatest achievement thus far brings up memories of Crowley’s time before the Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley recalling his time Before makes me weak, so I had to include a little bit of that in this fic. Not too angsty, I promise. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five- Mayfair, 1969**

“I still don’t see why you won’t make this one exception,” Crowley grumbles irritably as he drives through the streets of London, swerving past pedestrians with a scowl. 

“You know  _ exactly _ why I don’t want both of us to be sitting in front of a  _ television,”  _ Aziraphale retorts, trying to look calm but his hands gripping the seat on either side of his legs gives away the anxiety he feels about being in the car with Crowley. “A-  _ do  _ be careful, darling, please- a television will only invite trouble. We agreed back in sixty-two that we would take every precaution.” 

“It’s one night, Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs for what feels like the thousandth time. They’ve been arguing over this for weeks now, and time is almost up. “If Hell hasn’t contacted me through the telly by now, then I can’t imagine they will. They’ve used the radio  _ once _ since that initial broadcast, and that wasn’t even a message meant for me!” 

“And they could contact you  _ by accident _ again, and if they can  _ see  _ us, then we have no way of denying anything. We’ll be found out, and that will be the end of it. I’m not going to risk you being dragged into some infernal pit for all eternity just to watch a couple humans walk on the moon with me!” 

“It’s a historic moment, angel,” Crowley protests, “And other than your awful suggestion of standing on some crowded street outside a shop window, we don’t have much of a choice!” 

“We  _ like  _ humans,” Aziraphale counters, and Crowley mouths the words Aziraphale says next along with him- “We ought to celebrate such a human triumph  _ with _ humans- and  _ stop  _ that!” He grouses, glaring at Crowley as the demon parks illegally, and shuts off the engine. 

Turning to face Aziraphale, Crowley lowers his glasses and gives his husband a look that somehow balances annoyed and pleading perfectly. “Angel,” he says, lower lip sticking out a little in a pout he’s learned from Aziraphale over the centuries. It’s been used against him plenty of times, and Crowley figures if ever there were a time to try said pout against its creator, now is that time. “My dearest, most angelic husband.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Aziraphale says, steadfast in his resolve. 

Crowley knows this. But he also knows exactly what  _ will _ get him somewhere. He slides closer, pressing one hand on the angel’s thigh, and wrapping the other around his shoulders. “Just think of it, angel,” he murmurs seductively, lips brushing against Aziraphale’s ear as he speaks, “If we watch it at my flat we can curl up together, just the two of us… all nice and cozy… with some of those pastries from down the street you like so much.” 

Crowley feels Aziraphale shift nervously. He grins. 

The hand around the angel’s shoulder moves, slipping back into his hair, stroking the nape of his neck as his other hand squeezes Aziraphale’s thigh. “I could also pick up some take away… maybe Indian? I know how much you like curry. What better way to watch humans walk on the moon, hmm?” 

Aziraphale considers for a moment, then turns sharply to glare at Crowley. “Stop trying to Tempt me,” he insists, looking away, as he pushes Crowley’s hand off his leg. “And we are in  _ public,  _ darling.” 

“One, not trying to tempt you,” Crowley says as he presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, “I’m  _ convincing  _ you. Two, we’re in my car- we’re not in public.” 

“We are visible to anyone who wishes to look inside.” 

Crowley gives him a dry look. “Are we? Really? You think I’m that bad at my job, angel?” 

Aziraphale shifts and points a finger to Crowley’s chest. “Aha! You admit this is a job, so you  _ are _ trying to tempt me!” 

With a growl, Crowley slinks back against the driver’s side door. “Bless it all, angel! Yes, fine. I’m trying to  _ tempt _ my  _ husband _ to spend an evening with  _ me.  _ Alone. Away from humans. To watch the blessed  _ moon landing.”  _

Aziraphale opens the door to the Bentley and after ensuring it is safe to do so, he gets out. Crowley follows suit. They have reservations, after all, and it would be rude to be late. Fingering one of the bullethole stickers on the door of the car, Aziraphale sighs, “I just hate the thought of us being… disturbed.” 

“They aren’t going to contact me,” Crowley says with a certainty he doesn’t entirely feel. “Cross my heart. They don’t know about televisions. They were  _ decades _ behind on the radio, so I imagine it’ll be awhile before they realize they have  _ other _ channels to contact me.” 

“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands together as they cross the street to the restaurant, “But I still think it’s an unnecessary risk.” 

“I know,” Crowley says with an indulgent sigh. He lets his hand sweep out, lightly grazing Aziraphale’s lower back for one brief moment before dropping his arm to his side once more. “You’re just trying to keep us safe; I understand. But nothing has happened, in all this time. Every step we take forward is full of uncertainty, but every time we’ve been safe. Upstairs isn’t interested. We know that. I think we can indulge this once.” 

“We’ve been lucky  _ this far,”  _ Aziraphale corrects grimly, “But one of these days we may not be so lucky.” 

“Maybe,” Crowley agrees, “Look. I’ll leave it up to you. If you’re not comfortable with it, I’ll drop the subject. You just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it, okay?” 

Aziraphale stops and considers for a moment. Around them people pass by, as they’ve always done. “If you’re  _ certain _ we’ll be alright…” 

Crowley turns and regards Aziraphale for a moment, trying and failing to bite back the smile that threatens to cross his face. “Let’s discuss it over dinner, angel,” he says indulgently, “I’m sure you have a hundred and one rules already in place to ensure nothing goes wrong.” 

“Well, as a matter of fact-“ Aziraphale says as he lets Crowley guide him inside. 

—

July 20th comes, and after making good on his promise to procure all of Aziraphale’s favorites- curry and pastries and cake and fish and chips from a food cart Aziraphale has taken a liking to- they settle in, Aziraphale nibbling in excitement as Crowley sips a vintage bourbon. The angel has gone through a great deal to ward the room for their protection. He can’t stop demonic interference, but he can mask his presence and make himself unnoticeable to those he wants to remain invisible to, and so after exerting a great many miracles (which he’ll explain away as doing reconnaissance on rumored demonic activity), they curl up together on Crowley’s newly purchased leather couch. 

“Oh, this  _ is _ terribly exciting, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks as they watch the television. “I’m so glad we decided to watch it here.” 

“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Crowley, my devilishly handsome husband, for convincing me to watch it at home and not standing on the street shoulder-to-shoulder with a hundred other people’.” 

Aziraphale glares at Crowley from out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” 

The demon pulls Aziraphale closer and rests his sharp chin on the fluff of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “And how would you put it, hmm?” 

Just then the television makes a strange sound, and the duo turn their attention to it, watching with silent and captivated awe as a man in a large white space suit emerges from the shuttle. 

_ That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.  _

Aziraphale gasps, watching as the men plant an American flag and begin to explore the surface of the moon. It’s entrancing, incredible, and Aziraphale and Crowley’s teasing banter falls away for a couple hours as they watch with silent awe as humans walk on the moon- a scientific feat that they both easily remember being nothing more than a vague dream spun by the most creative and thoughtful poets and philosophers. 

“They did it,” Crowley remarks softly, at long last breaking the awed silence. “They really did it.” 

Aziraphale hums in agreement, “I would wager this is the most impressive thing they’ve ever done,” he muses, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder, “The moon. They actually touched it. Walked on it. Why, I rather think they’ve finally done something I’ve never done.”

“It’s incredible,” Crowley says thoughtfully, “Walking amongst the stars. And  _ they  _ didn’t even get to experience it  _ properly.  _ What with their need to breathe and all that rot. Moving through the stars when they were young and fresh? Can’t beat it.” 

Aziraphale glances back at Crowley, only managing to see the tip of his nose, the point of his cheek from where he’s settled against him. Crowley doesn’t talk about the time Before. It’s never been something Aziraphale felt the need to ask about, and Crowley has never brought it up. He’s a little talked about his fall, about the aftermath of asking questions and being punished for it. He’s talked plenty about how asking those questions had been what led to his friendship with the Son of God. But Before, when he’d been an angel himself? Not once have either of them broached that topic in all their years of knowing one another. It had almost been an unspoken rule: this subject is off-limits. 

But it’s a new era, though. For men, and for them. And Aziraphale can’t help but realize, now he thinks of it, he  _ is _ curious. Maybe this is Crowley’s way of telling him he can ask. 

Can’t hurt to try. 

“Did you often walk amongst the stars?” He asks softly, trying to keep his tone light, on the edge of uninterested in case Crowley doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Yeah,” he replies softly, shifting to hold Aziraphale tighter. He twists until his back is against the armrest, and Aziraphale’s back is pressed to his front. His arms slide over the angel’s chest, and he rests his chin on Aziraphale’s head. “It’s been a long time, since I thought about it.” He tilts his head toward the television. Newscasters are replaying the footage of the historic moment and discussing the future of space exploration. “Never really let myself think too much about it. Not that I can remember much anyway.” 

“You don’t remember?” That comes as a bit of a surprise to the angel. Is it because it’s been so long? Or were those memories taken…?

Crowley shrugs, speaks far more easily than Aziraphale would have expected him to. “Not sure if it was further punishment, or a bit of mercy… but no. I don’t remember a lot about… well. Before I Fell. It’s all vague, like when humans try to describe a memory of their childhood: all bright and blinding and full of colors so vibrant you can’t really see anything clearly through the haze. I remember the stars. Know I helped build a few galaxies. I wasn’t anything special, I don’t think. Just a worker. But I remember the feeling of satisfaction when we finished a project. I can still tell you how to craft stardust… but I don’t remember my old name, or what I looked like, or what it felt like to be in Her presence. I think it was warm? Like a summer day by the lake, maybe.” 

“That seems cruel,” Aziraphale breathes, turning to look at Crowley, resting his hand on the demon’s chest. “To only leave a vague sense of memory. To know you’ve lost something, but unable to recall what it is you’ve lost.” 

Crowley is silent for several minutes. He watches the television, the images of stars and the moon and a galaxy he used to soar through with ease. “I might have agreed with you once,” says at length, “But as far as I’m concerned, She can have all my memories of my time before. I don’t need them.” 

“Oh?” 

“Nah,” Crowley says, turning back to look at Aziraphale. “You weren’t there; not worth remembering if you’re not part of the equation.” 

It’s said so simply, as if it were a truth Crowley has long known. But Aziraphale stirs at it, moving until he’s hovering over Crowley, one arm holding him up over his husband while the other hand brushes against his cheek. Crowley looks up at him as if daring him to question the sincerity of his words. 

“I have found,” Aziraphale mutters after a moment, “That my favorite thing about Earth is that you’re here too.” 

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley replies, lifting his own hand to cup around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, “Not unless you come with me.” 

“I’ll go anywhere you want,” Aziraphale swears. “I’ll follow you to the stars, if you ever fancy such a trip.” 

The smile Crowley gives him is the most undemonic, sweet, and sincere look he’s ever given. Overcome with love for him, Aziraphale leans down and kisses him, soft and gentle. 

“How about we start with a trip to the bedroom?” Crowley asks in between kisses, shifting his hips to press against the angel’s suggestively. Aziraphale giggles, pressing closer and slipping his leg between Crowley’s. “Of course. And then?” 

“Will I ruin the moment if I say  _ Pleasuretown?” _

Aziraphale stops and scowls. “Yes.”

“Then I won’t say it,” Crowley replies, kissing Aziraphale again as he miracles them to the bedroom where Aziraphale finds himself flat on his back, with a naked Crowley straddling him. “But I will say this, because I know you. Don’t worry about me. I haven’t been an angel for a long time, and I’m okay with shoddy memories. I meant what I said: She can have them. I know I struggle with my forced allegiance to Hell, but I don’t regret Falling either. It led me to you, so as far as I’m concerned, it was well worth it.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, and instead pulls Crowley down to kiss him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 
> 
> Coming up in chapter twenty-six: After experiencing another devastating loss, Crowley has a conversation with someone that is long overdue. (Please be aware this chapter takes place during the AIDS crisis, and while there is nothing graphic, it is a very heavy chapter that deals with AIDS, death, and grief.)


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six - An Unmarked Grave, November 24, 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After experiencing another devastating loss, Crowley has a conversation with someone that is long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rough one. Head the warnings.
> 
> This chapter takes place during the AIDS crisis.  
> Non-graphic mentions of AIDS, death, sickness. Grief. Drinking to cope with grief. 
> 
> Love you all.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six- An Unmarked Grave,**

**November 24, 1991**

Crowley stands at a site that should be a grave. In many ways it is, but the demon figures that there needs to be a body held within the confines of the space for it to be considered as such. And this tomb holds no body. It holds secrets and mystery and centuries of speculation and human curiosity, but no body. 

No, this body rose; unlike the body that was buried mere hours ago. 

Crowley stands silently in front of the tomb of Jesus- a place no mortals can pinpoint, despite their best efforts. That bit is one of the few things Hell approves of that Crowley  _ actually _ did. Shroud the location of Christ’s burial site with mystery. No. This isn’t a place for spectators and pseudo-religious charlatans to come and pretend to have some holy experience at. This is a place for thoughtful reflection, for remembering. 

Crowley feels awful it’s taken him this long to finally show up.

Wordlessly he sits, staring at the space where his friend had been buried. He lifts the bottle of wine he’s holding to his lips and drinks it down, wiping the droplets left over onto his Armani jacket sleeve. “S’posed to be able to just...talk at you,” Crowley says, words slurring a bit, “Thas what the humans say, anyway. Wonder if you can hear me? Wonder if She can hear me? Wonder if She’s  _ listening…”  _

Crowley shakes his head. He’s not here to talk about Her. He’s here to talk to his friend.

“Guess I’ll just talk and see what happens,” he says with a shrug. “Even if you can’t hear me, feels good to at least pretend like you can.“ He pauses; smirks. “Feel like ‘Ziraphale would call that  _ faith _ ,” he says as he shakes his head, “And who knows? Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what you do. Inspire faith in the faithless. You certainly inspired me.“

Crowley goes silent at that. Sits quietly, contemplatively. Listens to the world pass him by. It’s quiet out in the desert, but he can still feel the minutes pass by. Some days it feels like the world is  _ alive _ \- every atom, every molecule thrumming with energy. Sometimes he feels like he can hear them all, and they’re deafening. Sometimes it feels like the world is too much, too grand, too big, too loud. Too complex. Too painful. 

Finally, after some time has passed, Crowley speaks again. It’s soft, almost more to himself then to the empty space before him. Perhaps like a prayer.

“Buried another friend today,” he murmurs softly. “Name’s Freddie. You’d like him.” He goes silent again, alternating between deep drinks of wine and even deeper sighs. “Angel says it isn’t them,” he remarks simply, “And Hell has no idea what to think. They think it’s your lot.“ Crowley pauses, scoffs. “Never really wear  _ your _ lot though, were they?” he remarks thoughtfully, “You never were like them. Way more grounded, you were. Almost human, really. And maybe that’s the point… maybe that’s why I liked you. You weren’t one of  _ them _ . You were… you were one  _ us.  _ You cared about humans. Hell doesn't. ‘S’not the point of Hell. Kind of the opposite of the point. Heaven doesn’t seem much better, though, from what I’ve seen. From what Aziraphale says.” He pauses at that, looks down at his hand, at his wedding ring. For a brief moment, he doesn’t feel the weight of grief bearing down on him. For a moment, he feels safe, like when a white wing stretched out over him, shielding him from the rain. 

“Speaking of Aziraphale,” Crowley says, drunkenness making his thoughts and words loose, “I married him. Over a hundred years ago.” He smiles at the ring. “Managed to convince him… somehow. Dunno how I did that. But he likes me,” Crowley pauses, giggles a little stupidly, “Actually, he loves me. Me!  _ Crawley… _ the slippery little serpent who Tempted Eve and caused a ruckus in the fallout of that. Somehow he thinks I’m worth it. The risk.” Crowley rubs his hands over his face, sighing and sputtering a bit. 

“You thought I was worth the risk, too,” he murmurs, voice low and brittle, like his heart, “You saw a demon trying to tempt you with the world and said nah, you’ll do. Who the fuck does that?” He asks, and for a moment he almost expects an answer. None comes, and he blows a raspberry. 

“I changed my name, you know? That  _ stupid  _ joke you made… I couldn’t stop thinking about it, when I was watching you-” he stops, struggles with a few choice words before settling on, “Die… When I was watching you die.” His head hangs low, and he sighs wearily. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how  _ stupid _ you were, laughing until you cried over  _ Crowley.  _ And I took that name. On a whim, really. But I did. You liked that bird. And I made you laugh. Proudest I’ve ever been of myself, making the Son of God laugh. So I took that part of you that made me feel, for once, like a  _ person _ . I wasn’t a snake to you, was I? You saw the good in everyone. Even me. Even a demon.” A bitter sound escapes him at that, “Why can’t we be more like you? You were the best of us. The absolute best, and-“ 

He sniffles, and is surprised to realize he’s crying. He wipes his eyes, his nose on his sleeve, then curls up, arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting on top. “Anyway,” he grumbles, “They buried Freddie. I couldn’t watch, this time. I’ve buried so many people in my life. You, for a start. Anne. All those kids that died of the Plague. The first one. Or, well. The  _ Bubonic  _ one. Had to watch Aziraphale lose people, too. Oscar. Robbie. Sebastian and Clarke. That little old lady who owned the bakery two stores down. Man, he loved that woman. Best crepes outside Paris, he claimed, and  _ that _ is the kind of praise you don’t hear often from Aziraphale. But yeah. Freddie. Couldn’t do it. Not again. This… so many are…” Crowley shakes his head and huffs. 

“Aziraphale is at the hospital. Sitting with blokes who are alone. Abandoned. Because of who they are. Are they being punished?” He looks up at the sky, and his next words aren’t so much for his friend, as for the one whose love he can’t remember. “Are you punishing them? It’s not us! How can you have a son so blessedly  _ loving and kind _ and then turn a blind eye to this?! Why hasn’t Aziraphale been given orders to save people? Do you even care? Or are you like a toddler who wants a toy, then throws it aside because now you’re bored with it? Are you  _ bored with us? _ Is that why there’s mass graves with too many to fit in them and no cure!? What kind of-“ 

He stops short, throat thick and tangling the words where they form in the back of his mouth. He snarls and grumbles, and drowns the words with wine. Tears slide down his cheeks and he lets them, not bothering to wipe them away. He just lets them fall, lets the tears run their course, and he curls into himself, trembling and grieving and so very angry at the injustice humans must face. That, for all his power, he’s powerless to stop. 

When he sits up his suit is covered in sand. It’s in his hair, which has fallen from where he’d tied it back and now brushes his shoulders. Removing his glasses, he blinks in the bright desert sun and wipes his eyes, then replaces his glasses and stands, dusting himself off. 

“I don’t know why I came here,” he says after a long moment. It’s a lie, and he knows it. He knows Jesus would see right through him too, and he doesn’t know if that amuses him or angers him. 

Perhaps it does both. 

He lingers for a while, bottle hanging limply in his hand as he stares blankly at the empty place before him. “Yes I do,” he says at length. “I’m feeling oddly nostalgic today. Death does that to an immortal being, I suppose. Makes you think back on everyone you’ve lost, makes you wonder how many more times you’re going to be stupid and give your heart to someone, knowing in a blink they’re going to leave you, just like everyone else. Not because they want to. Not because they don’t care… but because they have no choice. I am going to make new friends, because I’m a glutton for punishment, and then I’ll have to watch them die too. Then I’ll wonder at the purpose of it all, and turn around and do it again.”

Crowley shivers. Laughs bitterly. “I don’t think Hell could come up with a worse punishment if they tried.” 

_ They could take Aziraphale away from you _ , a voice in his head helpfully supplies, but he shoves that thought away with a force so strong it makes him stagger where he stands. 

Or maybe that’s the alcohol. 

Once he regains his balance, Crowley stands still and sobers himself up. The dreadful feeling of sorrow and emptiness replaces that satisfying buzz of numbness, and instantly Crowley regrets the decision. “Fuck,” he grumbles, then makes the bottle disappear. 

“I should go,” he says, though he’s certain no one is there to hear him. “I’ve made a big enough fool of myself as it is. Cheers, mate.”

He turns, and when he does, a sudden breeze picks up, swirling around him in a way that does little more than ruffle his hair- the way Crowely had done to Jesus one day when they’d been joking around together. The demon had ruffled the man’s hair, telling him ‘You’re alright for the biggest goody-two-shoes there is.” 

The wind curls around, going from cool to warm, and for a moment, it feels like arms around his waist before it disappears, and the world around him once again settles and grows still. 

Despite himself, Crowley smiles.   


—

The air feels different upon entering his flat. First, the shades are all open, bright and welcoming, which he never allows. A demon’s lair is meant to be dark and foreboding, dreary and frightening. All hope abandon, ye who enter here, and all that. 

The next thing he notices is off is that music is playing. Not on the radio, but on a gramophone that he knows for a fact isn’t his. The record playing is one of his own: Crowley likes to collect records, even if he has found that, despite Hell being able to contact him through it, the radio is quite entertaining. 

As he moves further inside, he feels the expected angelic presence he knows better than anything. He smells the distinct aroma of spices that indicate Indian takeaway, and upon entrance to the kitchen he spots the angel himself, dressed in simple trousers and a navy blue jumper, aerating a bottle of wine. 

Aziraphale looks up, and when Crowley sees those beautiful blue eyes that seem to somehow be both bright and dark and every hue of blue mixed together, looking at him with silent understanding and love, the demon feels the first traces of relief he’s felt in an age. 

_ “Angel…” _

“I had a feeling you would come here, rather than the bookshop,” Aziraphale says softly, moving closer to him, “We can sit in silence all night, if you prefer, but I didn’t want you to be alone. Not after today.”

Wordlessly, Crowley reaches out and wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, burying his head against the angel’s neck. He doesn’t cry; he’s too wrung out and tired for that. But he does feel the impossible weight of grief he’s been carrying lessen under the ineffable strength of his husband. He feels desire roll off Aziraphale- Crowley can’t sense love, but he can sense lust, and the angel is a devoted practitioner of manipulating this aspect of their natures so that Crowley can feel his husband’s desire and interpret it as the love it’s meant to express. He soaks it in, drinks it as desperately as he’d chugged the bottle of wine earlier, and breathes easier for it. 

They hold each other for a long while, standing in Crowley’s kitchen and saying nothing more. Finally, the demon shifts a little, and pulls back to look at Aziraphale, then at the table. 

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I don’t have to,” Aziraphale agrees, “But I wanted to.” 

“You’ve been busy,” Crowley responds, “You shouldn’t have to take care of me on top of everything else.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and escorts Crowely to the table. The food on his plate is basic compared to the luscious meal on Aziraphale’s. But the angel knows better than to try and convince Crowley to eat more than a few bites. Food isn’t really the demon’s fortey. Wine on the other hand… 

“It is my duty to take care of the humans who are in need,” Aziraphale replies primly as he pours the wine, “It is my privilege to take care of my husband when he is in need.” 

“But who takes care of you,” Crowely asks as he watches the wine- his favorite vintage that he has no idea how Aziraphale found since the winery that made it burned in 1764- being poured. 

“Well, you do, of course,” Aziraphale says easily as he takes his seat, “I should think it obvious by now.” 

Crowley stares at the table between them. “Seems like you’re the one doing all the caring at the moment,” he remarks. Aziraphale tuts. 

“This isn’t some one-for-one transaction,” he says a bit stiffly. “I’m not covering a temptation so you will perform a blessing later on. We don’t owe each other anything. I’m doing this because I love you.” He picks up his wine glass and swirls it absently as he continues. “To be sure, the work I’m doing at the hospital is exhausting and draining and discouraging. But it’s nothing I haven’t done before. I’m grateful that I get to give these young men a few moments of unconditional love and hope and peace. But you lost a friend today, darling. And just as you were there for me when I lost Oscar, let me take care of you.” He takes a sip of wine, and his eyes brighten. “Oh my, that  _ is _ good.” 

Crowley watches Aziraphale, feeling overwhelmed with how much he loves him. It’s a warmth, unlike the physical warmth of the room, but internal, igniting within his heart brighter and hotter than hellfire could ever dream of being. A small part of him wants to stand, move to the angel and straddle him, kissing him until he’s drunk from it. 

He glances down at the table. The angel went through a great deal to do this; physical intimacy can wait. He picks up a piece of naan bread and nibbles on it, watching as Aziraphale eats with less enthusiasm than normal. It’s almost human, how he eats simply for the act of eating. Normally the angel indulges in his meals, savors the delicacy of the cuisine. He’s still slow, still savors each bite. But this isn’t a dinner at the Ritz to celebrate some silly occasion they’ve made up as an excuse to dine out. It’s simply his way of caring, of trying to help in what way he can. 

It’s the best naan bread Crowley’s ever tasted. 

—

They don’t go back to the bookshop. Instead they wash and dry the dishes together- something incredibly domestic that they both find comfort in. Afterward, they make their way to Crowley’s bathroom where they shower, taking turns bathing one another in gentle and companionable silence. Once out, they fall into Crowley’s ridiculously large and outrageously comfortable bed. Aziraphale holds Crowley close, and the demon wraps himself around the angel as tight as he can. They lay there for a long while, neither speaking, simply listening to the other breathe until their heartbeats line up to beat as one. 

“Are you volunteering again tomorrow?” Crowley asks after a while. 

Aziraphale stirs. It’s always strange when the angel falls asleep but Crowely is awake. “I don’t have to,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. 

“I think I might go with you,” Crowley says softly, hugging him tight. “Should be something demon-y I can get up to there.” 

He feels a kiss to his temple. “Would be a pity if some unfortunate things occurred to those who come to visit my patients with the express purpose of shaming them.” 

“What’s that saying? Karma’s a bitch.” 

Aziraphale laughs. “Quite.” 

The angel shifts then, onto his side so he can look at his husband. “Sleep, my dear. It’s been a long day.” 

“Been a long decade.” 

“That too.” 

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks softly. 

Crowley shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t really know what to say.” 

“Then we’ll say nothing,” Aziraphale says, making it clear that Crowley can talk if he wishes, but there is no expectation. This is a safe place, and he can do what he needs to process; to grieve. 

They’ve both done a great amount of grieving. 

“I miss him,” Crowley says after several minutes of silence in which he’d tried to piece together how he feels, but his emotions are like a giant jigsaw puzzle that somehow got mixed together with another jigsaw puzzle and he’s trying to put them both together at once while blindfolded. 

“Freddie?” 

“Freddie,” Crowley agrees, “Jesus… Sebastian. Anne.”

He feels Aziraphale squeeze him close, warm and comforting and understanding. “I’m sorry.” 

Crowley shifts, clinging tighter to Aziraphale. “Why doesn’t it get any easier?” 

Beside him, the angel sniffles. “I wish I knew.” 

At that Crowley lifts his head to look at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes shimmer bright with unshed tears, and Crowley reaches up to wipe them away. “Oscar?” 

The angel nods. “I certainly never felt for him what I feel for you, but I really did love that infuriating man.” 

Despite himself, Crowley smiles. It’s a sad smile, fragile and hanging by a thread. But he sees the comfort Aziraphale takes from it all the same. They’re both hanging on by a thread, really. “I know.”

Crowley lays his head back down, and they lie in silence for a little while. Then, “Tell me about them?” Aziraphale requests. 

“Who?” 

“Any of them,” Aziraphale says, “All of them. Tell me about them. Your favorite memories. The ones that make you smile. Make you laugh. I don’t care if I’ve heard them a thousand times before. Tell me how much you loved them. Tell me about how happy being around them made you.” 

Crowley nods his head against Aziraphale’s chest. “Will you tell me about Oscar, when I’m done?” 

He feels more than hears the laugh that bounces out of Aziraphale. “Darling, I never pass up an opportunity to talk about dear old Oscar.” 

They stay up the rest of the night, lying curled up together and recounting stories of their many human friendships over the years. They laugh until they cry, and then they laugh some more. And when dawn comes, they rise and go to the hospital together. And with the stories sitting fresh in their minds, they sit at bedsides and whisper miracles, and protect those who need it with a renewed vigor that only love can inspire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warm burst of air was definitely Jesus giving Crowley a hug because holy fuck after all that he needed one. 
> 
> Coming up in chapter twenty-seven: date night for Crowley and Aziraphale is interrupted by an assignment that is, quite literally, the beginning of the end.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Very Tense Eleven Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets some bad news. He and Aziraphale must find a way to stop the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the events of the book/show, but with more sex and no Shadwell! Enjoy!

* * *

_   
_ **Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Very Tense Eleven Years**

_2009_

Just as Aziraphale finishes tying his bow tie, the shop phone rings. He glares over at it, offended that someone might want to talk about books when he has a date with his husband. It’s not a special occasion; it’s simply dinner and a show, but Aziraphale has been looking forward to this all week, and the thought of delaying things even for a moment annoys him more than he imagined possible. 

He’s meant to be a beacon of infinite patience, but this week has been awful. He’d had to deal with a slew of annoying customers- several of whom had tried to _ buy  _ something- and now that the shop is officially closed for the weekend, he is determined not to answer the phone for anything. 

He is  _ closed, _ and is trying to get reading for his evening out with Crowley. Everything else can wait until Monday. 

Finally, mercifully, the phone stops ringing, going to the answering machine Aziraphale has never once listened to. He smirks, quite satisfied that the pesky customer has been successfully ignored, and turns back to finish tying his bow tie. He knows he can miracle it to perfection, but there’s something satisfying in one managing to properly tie one’s tie on their own. 

Unfortunately, it’s just a touch off, so he undoes it and begins again. Just as he gets about halfway through, the phone rings again. 

Aziraphale hates his telephone. Over the years an increasing number of customers have managed to find the number and call, inquiring after some rare tome he  _ most certainly  _ possesses, but isn’t about to sell to some stranger. Increasingly, telemarketers have been calling- which Crowley  _ definitely _ had a hand in, though he’s never managed to get the demon to confess to that. With a sigh, he grabs the phone and answers with a long suffering sigh, “I’m afraid we are quite definitely closed.” 

The voice that answers is grim, full of regret and unease. “I’m not going to make dinner,” Crowley says simply, skipping his usual greeting of  _ hey, angel.  _

The angel tenses. “What’s happened?” He asks, fear gripping him. His mind instantly begins offering up a variety of increasingly horrible scenarios that Crowley could have found himself in, and each one makes him more fearful than the last. 

“Don’t know,” Crowley replies distractedly. Aziraphale can hear the static of the radio in the Bentley playing before it’s quickly shut off. “Got a summons from the boss. I have a job, but they won’t tell me what until I meet with Lord Hastur.” 

_ “Meet?” _ Aziraphale gasps. Neither of them have had to  _ meet _ with their bosses in a long time. Aziraphale clutches the phone tightly, and says as much. “You haven’t had to meet anyone in-“ 

“I know, angel,” Crowley cuts in, “I’m worried, too.” 

Aziraphale bites his lip, sinking down into his armchair. His palms are sweating, and he feels a cold chill run up his spine. “After all this time…” he whispers. 

“I know.” 

“Do you-“ Aziraphale stops short; swallows. “Do you think it’s-” 

“I’ll find out in forty minutes,” Crowley says with a sigh. “Wanted to meet in the most fucking out of the way graveyard in the country.” 

Despite the gravity of the situation, Aziraphale can’t help but roll his eyes. “A  _ graveyard?  _ Really?” 

“Hey, I didn’t arrange it,” Crowley protests bc gruffly, “And you know as well as I do that our superiors have no sense of imagination. Next time you see your twat of a boss it’ll probably be in a church.”

The thought fills Aziraphale with dread. The next time he sees his boss, it’s supposed to be the end. And that’s not a thought worth entertaining. Best to let Crowley get through this mission. “Let’s not think of that,” he says, “I’ll wait here for you. Call me the moment you can.” 

“Don’t wait,” Crowley says softly, “You should still try to enjoy your evening. Go have dinner. Maybe this is nothing; and if it is, I’ll join you quick as I can and we can carry on.” 

“But if it isn’t nothing…” Aziraphale suggests warily. 

“Then you might want to enjoy good food while you still have a chance,” Crowley remarks simply. “I’m getting close. Don’t want to be on with you when I arrive. Just a precaution.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, feeling the weight of six thousand years of worry settle upon him all at once. “Please be careful, my love.” 

“Always, angel.” A pause, then, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

The call ends, and Aziraphale drops the phone onto the end table to his side. He sits for several long moments trying to get himself under control. His chest burns from how hard and fast he’s breathing, and it takes quite a bit of effort to force himself to a level of calm that will allow him to step out in public and not seem on the verge of hysterics. 

He ties his bow tie. It’s lopsided. He doesn’t care. 

—

Aziraphale orders a ridiculous amount of sushi, determined to have enough for Crowley, when he comes. 

If he comes. 

The chef gives him his plate, and Aziraphale thanks him in fluent Japanese. He takes a moment to savor the sight and scent of such a delicacy, but he finds his heart isn’t entirely in it. It’s not the same, knowing he’s indulging on a very expensive meal that was meant to be shared with his husband, while said husband is off meeting with his demonic supervisors. 

Aziraphale’s hand trembles with worry, making the piece of sushi he picked up with chopstick fall with an unseemly splat onto the plate. Closing his eyes, he tries to focus on being calm. On the image of Crowley, safe. He focuses on the heavy weight of his wedding ring, meant to symbolize courage, and takes a deep breath. He can smell something otherworldly, and for a moment he thinks he might open his eyes and see Crowley, looking at him as if he were a fool. 

The smell takes on a floral scent, and the angel’s eyes snap open. He glances to his right, and his heart stops dead and plummets as he sees- 

“Gabriel.” 

The angel grins. “Aziraphale,” he says in that too-friendly way. In the loud, obnoxious sort of  _ be not afraid _ time that had  _ never _ worked on humans. Well, save for Mary, but she’d had a stronger backbone than most. 

“What a surprise,” Aziraphale says, laying down his chopsticks and nervously gesturing to the chair across from him. Crowley’s chair. But, well, he is an Englishman, technically, and so his manners override his fear and dislike of the archangel. “Would you like to sit?”

Gabriel waves his hand dismissively. “Can’t stay long,” he says, “Just wanted to pop in and let you know my sources have informed me that-“ he glances around, though no one is paying them any mind- “ _ Things  _ are afoot.” 

Aziraphale feels all color drain from his face. His chest tightened and suddenly his lungs, which have been successfully functioning off and on for millenia, suddenly forget how to work. “They are?” He manages your squeak out. 

“Word is the demon Crowley is involved,” Gabriel continues, oblivious, “Probably tasked with setting things in motion. You’re not to interfere, obviously, since this is the moment we’ve been waiting for. What kicks things off, and all that.”

“Right.” 

“I want you to keep an eye on him,” Gabriel instructs, “Obviously without letting him see you.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale manages, practically on autopilot at this point. He’s thinking about Crowley. He’s terrified for Crowley. He wants to call him, to rush to his side, to- “I have been doing this for nearly six thousand years,” he speaks, even as his mind is a hundred miles away. 

“Which is very impressive, I must say,” Gabriel says as he slaps a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, causing the blond to grunt from the force of the hit. “I can’t imagine having to put up with a demon like him for so long. Disgusting things. Anyway, the archangels have been talking, and we all agree that when we win, whoever gets to Crowley first is going to save him for you. Figured you deserve the honor of smiting the foul creature yourself since you’ve had to put up with him for so long!” He laughs merrily at the thought. 

Aziraphale’s fist clenches. He feels rage burning inside him, righteous and furious at Gabriel’s words. He wants nothing more than to stand up and tell Gabriel off. But he can’t. Not if he wants to keep them safe. Their safety is all that matters, and so he swallows down his rage like the most bitter and disgusting cup of coffee and chokes out, “What an honor.” 

“Knew you’d think so!” Gabriel remarks, and the fact that he’s so cheery at the thought of destroying Crowley makes the angel sick. “Anyway. Just wanted to let you know that we’re nearing the end. Won’t be for a little longer, so I understand, but best to let you prepare. I’d like quarterly reports. We’re really excited upstairs, and while most events on earth haven’t held much interest for us,  _ this  _ is something we’re very invested in. So, for this last stretch, we’d like you to report directly to head office. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” Aziraphale manages to murmur. 

“Fantastic,” Gabriel says in that horribly insincere way. “See you soon!” He pats Aziraphale on the back again, gives the sushi a confused, horrified look, then disappears. 

Aziraphale sits for ten minutes, staring at his plate. Eventually he leaves without eating a bite, and miracles enough money in the till for the owner to be able to pay off his lenders. 

—

Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, though later he’ll struggle to remember how he got there. He’s doesn’t recall walking, nor does he recall miracling himself there. All he knows is that by the time Crowley enters the bookshop, looking dazed and frightened, he’s well into his cups, drowning in wine and despair. 

“I just delivered the Antichrist,” Crowley announces with a simplicity that undermines the severity of the situation. 

“I know,” Aziraphale says from where he’s slouched in his armchair, “Gabriel came to the restaurant. Can’t ever go back there now. Ruined for me.” 

“You won’t be going there at all if we don’t do something,” Crowley remarks bitterly, tugging the glass from the angel and swallowing the remaining contents in one large gulp. He looks about for a moment, spots the half empty bottle and grabs it, refilling the glass for Aziraphale, then takes a long swig from the bottle directly. 

“What happened?” Aziraphale asks drearily. 

Crowley sits down heavily on the couch. After taking another long swig, he relates the events of the evening. Arriving at the graveyard, seeing Hastur and Ligur for the first time in millenia, (“They look wretched, angel. Worse than I remember. Time has not been kind to either of them,”) and then how he’d been forced to take the baby to a nearby birthing hospital, deposit the baby in the care of some satanic nuns, and then remain on standby for eleven years until the child comes into his power and calls forth the Four Horsemen to bring about the end of the world. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale remarks, palm pressed to his forehead, “This is  _ bad.”  _

“This is  _ worse _ than bad,” Crowley replies gravely. 

“And we haven’t even discussed this,” Aziraphale laments, “I kept putting it off because it’s such a dreadful conversation, and now it’s here, staring us in the face and we have no plan.”

Crowley groans and bends forward, resting his head on his knees. “Eleven years,” he says, voice muffled, “And then it's all over. Practically a blink. And then…” he trails off, unable to finish that thought. 

“And then Heaven and Hell rise up to wage war,” Aziraphale says for him, “And Heaven emerges the victor.” 

Crowley sits up, “Now you don’t know  _ that,”  _ he says. Aziraphale scoffs. 

“The Almighty is the one who created the Great Plan, Crowley,” he lectures, “I doubt She would place Herself on the losing side.” 

Crowley has the decency to concede that point. “Fair enough,” he says, “But surely this doesn’t have to be the end. Why-“ he huffs, blowing air through his cheeks, “Why does there have to be an end? I  _ like _ earth. Humans are so clever- think of all the amazing things we’ve seen them create. Why would She want that all to be destroyed just to prove Heaven is superior? What’s the point of creating something this vast and incredible just to drag it to ruins?” 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Aziraphale sighs, “It’s-“ 

“If you say  _ Ineffable,  _ I will come over there and  _ eff  _ you.” 

The angel can’t help but huff out a grim laugh. “Not a very good incentive  _ not _ to say it,” he replies, then all humor leaves him and he sighs. Rising, he moves to sit next to Crowley. He rubs his back soothingly, and the demon leans into it, shoulders loosening a bit under the angel’s touch. 

Then an idea strikes the angel. 

“If it’s  _ ineffable,”  _ he says, moving his hand to clutch at Crowley’s, who turns to face Aziraphale, “Then how do we  _ know _ that the plan is to have Heaven and Hell battle it out and the world ends?” 

“Well,” Crowley muses, “I believe the answer is something akin to  _ it is written.  _ That’s what you used to say, anyway.” 

“It can’t be written down  _ and _ ineffable,” Aziraphale argues, “It’s either known or it isn’t. And all this time,  both sides have spent this entire time  _ acting _ as if this whole Great Plan is written in stone-“ 

“Well, technically-“ Crowley offers, but Aziraphale ignores him and keeps on. 

“But if the Great Plan  _ is _ ineffable, by that logic, we don’t actually know what it is. And if the plan  _ isn’t  _ concrete, as it were, then perhaps-“

“We can stop it happening,” Crowley finishes, sitting a little straighter as the possibilities begin to open up before him. 

“We can stop it,” Aziraphale agrees, “The logic is a bit forced, but argued correctly, there is merit to it.” 

“So what do we do, then?” Crowley asks, watching Aziraphale with unguarded affection and excitement. They aren’t out of the woods yet, and he knows it, but they aren’t as lost as they’d been a mere hour ago. 

“I don’t know,” the angel answers, matching Crowley’s excitement, “But we have eleven years to think of something. Surely we can concoct a plan between now and then.” 

“With everything at stake? We absolutely can,” Crowley agrees. 

Aziraphale gives Crowley an enthusiastic look, and then goes silent, presumably mulling over possibilities to stop the Antichrist. Too drained to try to assist, Crowley simply wraps Aziraphale in his arms and reclines back on the couch, holding him close and letting his fingers brush up and down the angel’s arms, his stomach, his waist. He’s content to let Aziraphale think, because he knows without a doubt that if anyone can get them out of this mess, it’s his angel. 

After some time, Aziraphale speaks. “This will be the ultimate declaration,” he says softly, shifting to look at Crowely as best he can, “You realize that by working together to  _ stop the Antichrist,  _ we are declaring- loudly and without room for denial- that we are defecting from our respective sides. We are- what do humans say? Handing in our notices.” 

“I’m fine with that,” Crowley says simply, “I’ve wanted out for decades. So’ve you.”

“This is true.” 

“Well, this seems like the way to go about it. Stop the end of the world. Make it clear we aren’t playing by their rules anymore.” 

“Assuming there are actually any rules in the first place.” 

“Careful, love,” Crowley warns, but his tone is warm with affection, “You're treading dangerously close to Questioning.” 

“I’ve been questioning things for a long time,” Aziraphale remarks, thinking back to the first great flood, when he’d wondered at the purpose of such cruelty. He thinks back to Sodom and Gomorrah, and how sick he’d felt when he learned what happened. He thinks of Jesus- not even in terms of being a supposed Savior and Son of God- but as Crowley’s friend. He remembers the heat of that day, the stifling stench of death. The comfort of Crowley’s hand...

“I think it’s time I demand some answers,” the angel decides. 

“Bless it all, I love you.” 

“And I love you,” Aziraphale replies, shifting to kiss Crowley softly, “Of that, I have never questioned.” 

Crowely brings a hand to rest on the angel’s cheek. “I do love you,” Crowley whispers, “And I am going to do everything in my power to ensure we’re together. That we’re free. Screw Heaven and Hell.  _ You  _ are my choice, Aziraphale.”

“And you are mine,” Aziraphale echos, dizzy from how much love he can feel radiating off of Crowley. It’s nearly overwhelming. 

“I chose you six thousand years ago,” the demon continues, “I’ve chosen you every day, since. I’ll choose you every day hereafter. I don’t want the world to end. It can be fucked up and people can be awful, but…” 

“But it’s our home,” Aziraphale finishes for him, “And when it comes down to it, Heaven lacks the thing I care most about.” 

“Sushi restaurants?” Crowley offers. 

“Well, no, they don’t have those either,” Aziraphale muses with a frown, as if the very realization has just struck him, and he’s genuinely horrified by it. “But I meant you, my darling. I cannot fathom an existence in which you are not by my side, pestering me and tempting me and loving me. It doesn’t bear contemplating.” 

“Then we really have no choice but to stop The End from happening,” Crowley says with an air of finality. 

“Indeed,” agrees Aziraphale, sitting up with a sigh. “And with that said- come along, my love. We have work to do.” 

—

_ Five years later  _

“Your nanny is quite the imposing figure,” Aziraphale remarks as he takes a sip of tea during their weekly meeting at the local coffee bar that sits on top of where the  _ Angel _ had once reigned. Aziraphale can still recall the spot where they’d sat, flirting over coffee, and despite the seriousness of their current situation, he feels a small smile twitch at the edge of his lips. 

“And your gardener is a bumbling fool,” Crowley responds with a glare, “Where did you even find that man? Did you literally pick someone up off the street? He’s the worst, angel!” 

“At least he’s not traumatizing a child with lullabies about blood and guts and death and gore!” The angel huffs, crossing his arms indignantly. 

Crowley leans forward. “I hate to break it to you,  _ dear, _ but most nursery rhymes are about that exact thing!  _ Ring around the rosie _ remind you of anything?” 

Aziraphale stares for a long moment, then sighs, and takes another sip of tea. “This is a terrible conversation to have over tea.” 

“You started it,” Crowley grumbled tersely. It’s always like this, when they try to discuss the Antichrist. They’ve never really had any serious quarrels in all their time- they’ve disagreed about plenty of things, but that was always due to the nature of their respective sides, and they never took direct offense at anything the other said. Discussions about morality or ethics always dissolved into arguments, but there had never been much heat behind the words. Perhaps annoyance on Aziraphale’s part, but a pleading look from Crowley would soften his heart, and they’d go back to teasing one another in good humor. But with Warlock… 

Things are tense. Crowley is tense. Their relationship feels strained, since both Heaven and Hell insist on them checking in at least once every couple months. To stay safe, Crowley’s been at his flat more often than not (and for the first time he’s truly grateful he had the foresight to buy the blessed place). To keep up to date, they have been meeting once a week to exchange information, though it usually ends up with them arguing about how the other is handling their side of the arrangement. It’s frustrating and, at least for Crowley, is not how he wants to spend the last years of his life. Especially not in regards to his husband. 

But Hell is concerned: Warlock is not as evil as they’d like. There’s no power manifesting. Not lightbulbs flickering then shattering when the child throws a temper tantrum. Nothing is present to hint that this child is anything more than the spoiled son of a rich politician. Nanny’s reports are always the same: he’s a spoiled, darling child who has neither brains nor beauty to speak of, but none of that matters because he does have money, and that’s all he really needs. 

At least Heaven seems satisfied with Aziraphale’s reports. So he says. 

“Well I can always return to the bookshop and save us the trouble of-“ 

Crowley reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand. “No,” he says gruffly, then takes a breath to calm himself. “No. I’m sorry, angel. Hell’s breathing down my neck- but that’s no excuse. I don’t mean to take it out on you.” 

For a moment, the angel doesn’t respond and Crowley worries that perhaps- finally, after all these years- he isn’t forgiven. He’s always dreaded the day Aziraphale will come to his senses and leave him, but he’d always hoped to be proven wrong. 

“No, my darling,  _ I’m  _ sorry,” the angel says, squeezing Crowley’s hand. The demon releases a breath, tension in his shoulders slipping. “This has been difficult for us both. Especially you, I’m sure.” 

Crowley nods weakly. 

“Perhaps we ought to cut this meeting short,” the angel suggests softly, “I have a lovely bottle of 1990 Petrus I discovered the other day. Perhaps you’d like a glass?” 

“I’d  _ love _ a glass,” Crowley answers instantly. He doesn’t care about the wine. An invitation for wine is an invitation to the shop. And Crowley knows that if they’re in the security of the shop, fresh off of a visit to their superiors, Aziraphale might be feeling a little more willing to let them let their guard down. 

He misses the freedom of being able to have and hold Aziraphale whenever the fancy strikes him. 

They pay their bill and make their way to the bookshop. Aziraphale holds the door open for Crowley, who steps inside eagerly. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply as the familiar, homey feeling of the bookshop washes over him. He can’t just appear here anymore. He can’t stay for extended periods of time. Gabriel might stop by unexpectedly, or Hell may need to contact Crowley through the radio, and so they have to be available now. 

After millenia of scarcely hearing a word from Heaven and Hell, this sudden, extreme interest and demand for their time makes both of them feel like they’re choking on the leashes tied around their necks. Leashes that feel more and more like a noose each day. 

Before Crowley can walk further in, he feels Aziraphale grab his wrist and tug. The demon goes willingly, and is only mildly surprised to find himself shoved against the nearest bookshelf. Aziraphale’s lips are on his in an instant, and Crowley wastes no time sinking into the kiss, Aziraphale’s lips moving almost frantically against his own. 

“I didn’t invite you here for wine,” Aziraphale murmurs as he kisses his way down the column of Crowley’s throat, where he feels the moan vibrate as it’s drawn from the demon. 

“Wasn’t in the mood for wine,” Crowley remarks as he wraps his arms around Aziraphale and presses him closer. 

“What  _ are _ you in the mood for?” Aziraphale asks, already undoing the flies of Crowley’s pants, hand brushing over his half-hard cock.

“You,” Crowley growls against Aziraphale’s lips, “Always you. Only you.” 

“Then you shall have me,” Aziraphale remarks as he kisses Crowley again, then pulls away to lead the demon upstairs. 

They fall into bed. One of them miracles their clothing off, but it’s unclear who. Crowley shoves Aziraphale onto his back and wastes no time swallowing him down. The angel groans, hands moving to grip Crowley’s hair as he demands  _ more, darling.  _

Eventually Aziraphale hauls Crowley up to kiss him, using another miracle to ready himself before whispering, “Please, my dear. Fuck me.” 

The vulgarity nearly makes Crowley come on the spot, but he manages to stave it off and does as his husband bids. It’s frantic and hard and desperate, and as Crowley feels tears slide down his cheeks as he thrusts his hips hard against Aziraphale. When he blinks his eyes open, he isn’t at all surprised to see Aziraphale is in a much similar state. 

His heart breaks as he falls apart, coming with a broken sob. 

—

Later, after they’ve had their fill of one another, Crowley slides off Aziraphale and falls to the angel’s side, curling up against him as he wordlessly cleans up the mess with a snap. 

“Oh, goodness,” the angel sighs as he tugs up the tartan duvet over them, “I needed that.” 

“Same,” Crowley remarks sleepily. After a moment he adds, “Don’t like fighting with you.” 

“I dislike it as well, my love,” the angel sighs as he wraps his arms around Crowley, holding the demon close, “Seems lately all we do is discuss work. Not very conducive to how we’ve previously enjoyed our relationship.” 

“Not at all,” Crowley agrees, already half asleep. He’s warm, worn out, and surrounded by the smell of the bookshop, of Aziraphale. He feels at home here; he feels safe here. “Maybe we meet twice a week? Once for business, once for pleasure?” 

“Won’t that be dangerous?” It’s not a  _ no. _

“No more dangerous than how we’ve lived for six thousand years,” Crowley shrugs against Aziraphale, “And suppose we fail. I don’t want my last years with you to be spent staring at you from afar, annoyed and terse. I’d rather know I loved you as best and as much as I could, given the circumstances.” 

He feels a kiss against his temple. “Then twice a week it is.” 

—

_ Six Years Later  _

There’s a saying that everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. 

And in the case of the Antichrist, that saying proves undoubtedly true. First, the Antichrist they’ve spent years observing, influencing… he’s not the Antichrist. 

Second, they have no idea where the  _ real _ Antichrist is. Third, Crowley confirms that the child has named the Hellhound, and Armageddon is officially set into motion. 

—

They bicker all the way to Tadfield. They bicker at the old hospital where they meet the nun Crowley gave the baby to eleven years ago. She’s of no real help, and they take out their frustration on each other in an abandoned room near the back of the hospital. Crowley freezes time long enough to frantically rut against Aziraphale’s thighs, and the angel grips his hair so tightly it feels as if he might actually rip a handful out. 

They find calm in the moments after, and look at each other with resignation that perhaps this really  _ is  _ the end. Wordlessly, Aziraphale sets them to rights (and were it any other time, Crowley would point out the hypocrisy of Aziraphale doing that minutes after complaining about miracling out a paint stain on his coat. But the air is tense and they are tenser, so he doesn’t mention it.) 

On the way back home they crash into a lovely young lady on a bicycle. After being bullied by Aziraphale, Crowley agrees to give her a lift home. Once she’s safely back at her cottage, the two drive away, thinking nothing of the encounter and instead bicker about Crowley’s dangerous driving habits the entire way. 

Another day closer to the end of the world, and they’re no closer to finding the Antichrist. 

They stop at the bookshop, and Aziraphale is about to invite Crowley inside for tea (and another desperate, sorrowful fuck) before he notices something in the backseat of Crowley’s car. He reaches down to grab it, and- 

“Oh my God.” 

Crowley looks sharply at him. Aziraphale has blasphemed more in the past week than he ever has, but before Crowley can comment on it, the angel turns and rushes across the street toward his bookshop. Curious, the demon follows. Upon entrance, he sees Aziraphale is already sitting at his desk, pristine white gloves sliding over those gorgeous, well-manicured fingers, and the demon has to shove down the urge to shove the book aside and spread himself out on said desk. Instead he hovers over Aziraphale’s shoulder, looking at the book.

_ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, _ the green cover reads. 

“What’s this, then?” 

Aziraphale starts, then turns, looking up at Crowley with eyes that are wide and shining with hope. 

“Our salvation,” he says simply, then turns back to the book, flips open to the beginning, and starts to read. Crowley doesn’t know how some book is their salvation, but he trusts his husband, and goes to make the angel some cocoa while he waits. 

Occasionally, Aziraphale reads a prophecy aloud. Their eyes meet as they recognize the event in question, Aziraphale’s gaze wide with shock, Crowley’s brow lifted in startled amusement. After a while, Aziraphale hands the book to Crowley, instructing him to read while Aziraphale takes notes. Crowley obeys. 

Every prophecy is, true to the name, nice and accurate. Every single one. 

By the next evening, they have the Antichrist’s name and address. Despite Aziraphale insisting that they  _ need to do something now, dear! _ Crowley carefully places the book aside- he’s felt Aziraphale’s wrath when he’s neglected to handle a book with the proper amount of care- then hops up on said desk and fulfills his fantasy of Aziraphale fucking him on it. 

—

Armageddon doesn’t happen. 

There’s a showdown at an airbase. The Antichrist, with the help of his three little friends, rejects the destiny placed upon him, challenges the order and purpose of things, and decides that the end of the world is far too stupid to allow to happen just yet. He rejects his unholy father and declares himself the son of Arthur. And in an instant, the last eleven years boil down to a single moment, and a child who should never have been forced to make such a difficult decision,  _ does,  _ and by all rights saves the world. 

Of course it  _ can’t  _ be that simple, and Crowley and Aziraphale watch as their respective superiors appear and try to convince the boy to rethink things. The boy, Adam Young, looks at them like they’re the most ridiculous adults in the world (and by all rights, they  _ are) _ and tells them that under no circumstance is he going to do what they want. He’s made his choice, he already has a dad, and he isn’t going to let a bunch of stupid supernatural beings destroy things just to see whose gang is best. 

With that settled, the two representatives of Hell and Heaven look around in utter confusion as to what to do next. After a moment, they seem to notice the other individuals present, and their gazes lock onto Crowley and Aziraphale. Beezlebub looks ready to commit murder, and Gabriel stares with the slack-jawed look of someone who has been utterly betrayed. 

Wordlessly, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, and informs Gabriel that if he intends on doing any harm to the boy, he’ll have to go through him. 

Crowley looks at Beezlebub and utters, “What my husband said.” 

The archangel goes red in the face. “You mean to tell me,” he seethes, forgetting about Adam altogether in favor of stalking up to Aziraphale. Crowley inches in front of him. “That you’ve chosen to side with this pathetic excuse of a demon?! What could this-“ he glances at Crowley with undisguised hatred,  _ “Thing _ possibly offer you that Heaven can’t provide?” 

“Love,” Aziraphale says simply, meeting Gabriel’s livid gaze with a look of calm. He has Crowley’s ring on his finger and Crowley’s hand in his own. For the first time in his existence, he isn’t afraid. “He gives me love.” 

“Demons can’t love,” Gabriel mocks, “And if you think they can, then you’re more foolish than I ever imagined.” He glances at Crowley, who stares at him, unblinking. “This is  _ treason, Aziraphale.”  _

“I am aware.” 

“You should Fall for this.” 

Crowley flinches at that, and opens his mouth to protest, but Aziraphale speaks up first, squeezing his hand to silence the demon. 

“Then I shall Fall knowing I did it in service of the humans I was sent to protect,” he proclaims, “I will Fall knowing that I did everything in my power to protect Earth and its inhabitants, and I will Fall knowing that at the end of it, Crowley will be there to catch me.” 

It’s only then that he breaks his gaze, and he turns to look at Crowley.  _ “I love you,”  _ he says with such ferocity and devotion that he  _ glows,  _ and everyone around them has to shield their eyes. Everyone except Crowley. Except Adam. 

“I love you, too,” Crowley declares loudly. He turns to look at Beezlebub. “Consider this my resignation.” 

Beezlebub seethes. “You wretched little-“ 

“I think that’s enough of that,” Adam decides, looking at Gabriel and Beezlebub, “Grown ups should get to love whoever they want,” Adam decides, “And they shouldn’t be punished for that. You two need to go away now. I’m not destroying the world, and I think you need to just deal with it,” he points at Beezlebub and Gabriel, and with a burst of light, both are gone. 

And just like that, it’s over. Really, truly over. 

—

Great victories are not won without great loss. Aziraphale and Crowley face that loss in the form of an exploded Bentley and a burnt down bookshop. They say nothing, both trying to come to terms with everything that happened on the Day the World Didn’t End, and simply fall into Crowley’s bed. Sleep takes them almost instantly. 

The next morning they both wake fully aware of the fact that for the first time in their lives, they  _ might _ be free. It's unlikely, but possible. They’d stood up to their bosses at the airbase, making it abundantly clear where they stood on the matter of Armageddon and each other. Now they must wait to see if Heaven and Hell will seek retribution. 

Crowley frets more than Aziraphale. It’s hardly a comfort when they realize the Bentley and bookshop are restored, since Crowley can’t stop imagining the moment Aziraphale is going to double over in pain and that warm, holy light that radiates off him diminishes until there’s nothing but a Fallen angel before him. 

In six thousand years, Crowley has  _ never  _ been so clingy. Aziraphale says nothing, and waits with a nervousness that he keeps hidden if only to soothe Crowley. He told the truth at the airbase: if he Falls, he will do so with dignity. He’s more concerned about what infernal, eternal torment Hell might prepare for Crowley. Thinks he might beg Hell to take him too, if only so Crowley won’t have to suffer alone. 

He doesn’t tell Crowley that. 

They wait.

And wait. 

And wait. 

A week and two days pass in tense uncertainty, until finally the two of them wake up to see two letters sitting on Aziraphale’s desk. Terrified, Crowley picks up his letter and hands it to Aziraphale. “I can’t read it,” he says simply, “I can bear it… if it comes from you.” 

Aziraphale nods and hands Crowley his letter, wordlessly requesting the same. They look at each other, in this potential last moment of freedom. 

Aziraphale rips open the envelope. Crowley follows suit. 

Crowley is relieved of duty. Found to be a traitor by a committee of his peers, he is no longer welcome in Hell. By some obscure law that was written upon the creation of Hell, he can’t have his powers stripped, but he  _ is _ banished from Hell and is prohibited from doing any ill deeds in Hell’s name. 

Aziraphale is a little more unclear about his fate. According to his letter, he is no longer a Principality- stripped of all rank and titles, as agreed upon by Gabriel and the other archangels for  _ “a disgusting display of treachery and wickedness in choosing a demon over the sanctity of Heaven.”  _

He waits to feel Her grace leave him. Waits for the inevitable Fall. Waits to feel his powers stripped from him. Waits for the pain. 

Nothing happens. 

They look at each other. Slowly, Aziraphale smiles. Crowley sinks into a fit of hysterical laughter. Miracle of all miracles, it’s over. They’re free. 

—

Two weeks after receiving their letters, Crowley can still perform temptations; Aziraphale still has the ability to perform miracles. He still feels Heaven’s grace (a thing he now knows to be a true oxymoron). Crowley still burns with demonic essence. Aziraphale is not Fallen. Crowley still senses lust; can’t walk on holy ground (and he has the blisters to prove it). Aziraphale is still of Heaven, but is no longer a part of it. 

They just… are. 

It’s a strange reality to settle into, but they manage. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says several weeks after the world failed to end. As usual, Crowley looks up sharply, yellow eyes looking over the angel quickly, trying to assess if there is any pain, and change. Once he determines things are alright, he relaxes slightly. 

“Yeah?” 

Blue eyes look up to meet gold. “I think we should leave London for a bit.” 

“Oh?” Crowley says, curious. 

“Yes,” the angel says, a smile forming on his lips. “I think we should celebrate our retirement. Officially.” 

“I’ll have to check my schedule, but I can probably squeeze in some vacation time,” Crowley remarks playfully, enjoying the way Aziraphale huffs indignantly at him. It’s just like old times. Like it’s always been. But now they have nothing to fear, nothing to hide. Like they’ve always wanted. 

“I’m so pleased you’ll try to pencil me in,” Aziraphale replies dryly, “While you’re doing that, perhaps you can tell me if you have any preference on where you would like to go first?” 

Crowley stares at him for a moment. Finally he grins, then stands. As he approaches Aziraphale, the angel stands as well, and with each step he can see that Aziraphale is growing more and more joyful, more and more brilliant. He’s glowing: he’s  _ happy. _

They’re going to be okay. 

Their arms wind around each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Well,” Crowley says thoughtfully as he leans down to press a kiss to the angel’s cheek, “First I think I’d like to go upstairs.” 

“An excellent start,” Aziraphale agrees breathlessly. 

“Then,” Crowley murmurs as he trails kisses over Aziraphale’s face, down to his throat, then lifting to brush against the angel’s lips, “I’m up for anywhere. The world awaits.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skimmed over some stuff here, but we’ve all read the book and/or watched the show. I didn’t want to spend a ton of time here. 
> 
> For those who haven’t read the book: Crowley and Aziraphale hire a nanny and gardener to keep an eye on/influence Warlock. I opted to do that over the show’s choice of making *them* the nanny and gardener. I have no preference for one over the other, just thought I’d go more book-influence on that part. I also didn’t follow the show ending of having the body-switch trials (which I LOVE, but I wanted to do something different). 
> 
> We only have the epilogue to go. I can’t believe we’re already at the end! This feels like it’s flown by so fast! I know my hands/wrists need a break because they are SORE from all this writing and editing.
> 
> Anyway. See you Saturday for the epilogue!!! 😱


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight - Christmas, 2020 - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a beach near a cottage in the South Downs, two retired supernatural beings ponder the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. The final chapter of Lead Balloons. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos. I’m so grateful for all of you, and so thankful you chose to go on this adventure with me. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight- Christmas, 2020 - Epilogue**

The breeze carried forth by softly shifting ocean waves prickles against pale, angelic skin. It should leave him bitterly cold, but being of ethereal nature, it’s nothing more than a mere thought to weaken the bitter chill of sea air into nothing more than the vaguest sensation. Despite the cold; Aziraphale is warm. 

His shoes and socks are placed neatly beside the picnic blanket he spread out a few hours ago, when sleep refused to come. His pants legs are carefully rolled up, baring his strong calves to that same cold air that can’t penetrate his angelic resistance. His toes are buried in the sand, wiggling absently to feel the rough grains against his skin. He realizes with a vague sort of surprise that in all his years on earth, he’s never once sat on a beach with his toes buried in the sand and just let himself simply exist. 

He has time for that now, though. He has time for a great many things. Time stretches out before him as endless as the stars in the sky; the grains of sand on the beach. 

The questions in his heart. 

He sits in silence, nothing but the soft crashing of water to fill that equally endless void, and ponders:  _ What do I do now?  _

It’s the question that’s kept him up most nights since the world failed to end. Since they were relieved from their otherworldly duties. Since Aziraphale became a free agent. Or retired. Or whatever fun little phrase Crowley tries to think of to help soften the blow that is Aziraphale’s reality: 

He’s been  _ rejected _ by Heaven. Cast out. Abandoned. 

He hasn’t Fallen; he knows that much. But neither is he the Principality he once was. Not that he minds. He never thought he was cut out for it anyway. 

But just because he’s long felt disjointed from Heaven doesn’t mean  _ their  _ rejection of  _ him _ doesn’t hurt. It does. He’s an  _ angel.  _ Being a part of Heaven is as innate and necessary as… as a star to the sky or a fish to the sea. It’s a part of him, his nature, and to be cut off from it feel like he’s missing a limb, missing a part of himself/ even if it was a part he’d never much cared for. It’s presence had been a comfort, even if he didn’t much care for it. It’s absence is palpable; like an itch he can’t scratch hard enough to find any satisfaction. 

It’s not  _ all  _ bad, though. He doesn’t miss Heaven. He’s not been there in so long he scarcely recalls what it looks like. But he does feel a bit aimless, now. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s long been doing his own thing- the bookshop is a prime example of that. But he doesn’t have the bookshop anymore. Not as it was. It still stands; and it’s still full of books. But the windows are shuttered and he’d had Crowely write out a lovely little sign that explains the proprietor has gone on an ‘extended holiday to the country’. So he no longer has customers to thwart buying his books. Which is  _ fine,  _ he reasons. He didn’t want to sell his books anyway. 

And they have the cottage, now. A beautiful little cottage that is more spacious on the inside than it ought to be, full of books and plants and silly decorations he and Crowley have bought one another. It radiates love and even from this distance, Aziraphale can feel the distinct tingling of occult and ethereal magic that has soaked into the walls as beautifully as the blue-grey paint they’d picked out together. 

But even still; with a cottage to fix up (the old-fashioned, no miracles way), and even with a private library to curate and plants to soothe after Crowley finishes berating them; even after baking pies and cakes and treats and then cleaning all the dishes by hand… even after nights and mornings and afternoons of laughter and love and Crowely teaching Aziraphale how to waltz… even after long walks along this very beach… even after everything they’ve done over the centuries to earn this retirement… Aziraphale can’t help but feel restless. He feels like there is something missing; something he should be doing. He’s spent his entire life doing Heaven’s bidding. Waiting on the next order; not knowing  _ when _ it will come but knowing that it  _ will,  _ and having to resign himself to picking up and traveling to do whatever Heaven wants. 

But now Heaven wants nothing to do with him, and that leaves Aziraphale with the biggest and most harrowing question of all:  _ what do I want? _

“There you are.” 

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder. Crowley is approaching, wrapped in Aziraphale’s large, fluffy tartan robe. He has an obnoxiously large black blanket draped over his arm. He’s barefoot, kicking up sand as he walks, and in his hands he’s carrying two steaming mugs, each imprinted with the word  _ hubby  _ in a ridiculously swirling font. 

That had been one of Crowley’s better ideas: the obnoxious shortening of perfectly normal words.  _ Hubby, preggers, presh-  _ they’d all been him. Aziraphale knows Crowley had done it to annoy him- and it  _ worked-  _ but there’s something oddly comforting in seeing that word. So casual and simple. He hates the  _ word _ ; he adores what it implies. 

He can deal with being called  _ hubby-  _ even though he cringes at the word- so long as he’s  _ Crowley’s  _ hubby.

Crowley sits on the blanket next to Aziraphale, miracling it so that it more comfortably fits them both. He crosses his legs, then wordlessly hands Aziraphale one of the mugs, full to the brim with hot cocoa. 

“Thank you, my love.” 

Crowley hums in response, and takes a delicate sip of his own, licking away the homemade whipped cream from his upper lip before setting the cup down carefully and draping the large blanket over both their shoulders. Aziraphale pulls his edge closer to him, and keeps looking out over the ocean, calm in the wee hours of the morning, sparkling as it reflects the lights of thousands of stars. 

“I couldn’t find you,” Crowley says casually, trying to disguise his worry as something simpler, “And it’s  _ freezing.  _ What are you doing out here?” 

It’s not the first time sleeplessness has driven one of them out to the shore. It’s not the first time the other has followed. 

“You want the truth?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Generally, yes.” 

The angel sighs as he stars out at the endlessness before them. “The truth is that I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Crowley nods in understanding. “The possibilities are endless now, aren’t they?” 

“Overwhelmingly endless,” the angel agrees, “I keep waiting for something to happen- for Heaven or Hell to show up and pull the rug out from under us. I keep waiting to wake up and find the past several months have been the loveliest dream, and reality is going to be so much worse. I feel like I need to be doing  _ something… _ but I don’t know  _ what  _ to do.” 

“So you come out here and stare at the sea,” Crowely finishes for him before taking another sip of cocoa, “Maybe we ought to just set up a little campsite here.” 

“We’re here often enough,” the angel says, more a lament than an agreement. 

They sit in silence for a long time, both sipping on cocoa. Eventually they finish and set aside their mugs, then curl into each other- Crowley’s arm around the angel’s waist, his head on the demon’s shoulder. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Crowley asks softly, his fingertips idly brushing over the soft skin where Aziraphale’s dress shirt has come untucked. 

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for several moments. He breathes out through his nose, then shifts his body in a way that Crowley recognizes as a sort of shrug. “I need a purpose,” Aziraphale says at length. 

“You have the bookshop,” Crowley offers. The angel knows what this is- an offer to return to London. An offer to go back to some semblance of their old normal. Aziraphale doesn’t want to go back. He has his books to keep him in the past. He wants to look up from them into a bright future. 

“The bookshop was never my  _ purpose,”  _ the angel says. It’s something he’s long known, but he’s still shocked to hear himself say it. Crowley doesn’t react; he doesn’t want to color Aziraphale’s feelings with his own opinion. “The bookshop was a place to lay down roots. It was a place to keep my books. I never wanted to be a bookseller, not forever. They’re  _ my _ books.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Crowley remarks dryly, but with utmost affection. 

“I’ve never had a purpose,” the angel emphasizes, “Not one of my own. But the problem is, I don’t  _ know _ what I want to do with myself. There are so many things I feel I  _ should  _ do, but I don’t know if I  _ want _ to do them… I-“ he stops short, then lets out a sob as he confesses what he knows to be the singular root of all his worries: 

“I don’t know who I am without Heaven.” 

Crowley says nothing for the moment. He simply holds his husband closer, and rests his chin on his temple. Aziraphale melts into the warm embrace, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing until he and Crowley are doing so in tandem. 

“I know who you are,” Crowley says at last. It’s soft, barely a whisper, but Aziraphale hears it, can feel the vibrations of the words rattle against him. 

“Pray tell.” 

For a moment Aziraphale worries this might seem as if he’s fishing for compliments. But he knows Crowley understands that isn’t his intention. He knows Crowley intimately understands how lost and uncertain Aziraphale feels. He’s taken to retirement (rejection; abandonment) much better than Aziraphale has. He revels in his freedom. He still feels lost; still has moments where he worries he ought to be doing  _ more;  _ but it never lingers. It’s a habit; an old scab that he can’t resist picking at sometimes, but it’s a mostly healed wound by now, and Crowley- for all that he is wise and larger than life and so very  _ modern-  _ has adapted to a simple country life like a duck to water. 

Aziraphale wishes he could be so relieved. He  _ is, _ but six thousand years is a long time to be devoted to a cause, and- despite Aziraphale’s dissatisfaction with Heaven, despite his horror at how they viewed the world they were supposed to love- one does not simply turn away from all they knew and  _ not _ feel an overwhelming sense of vertigo at a life  _ without _ those bindings. 

He won’t ever go back, but nor does he quite know how to move forward. 

“You are,” Crowley begins, moving so he is kneeling in front of Aziraphale, straddling his thighs and capturing Aziraphale’s face with his hands, “Kind,” he says simply, “You sheltered a lonely demon from the rain with your wing, minutes after meeting him. You gave away your weapon to Adam and Eve… even after they’d been rejected, you still protected them.”

He leans forward and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. “You are intelligent,” Crowley continues as he sits back, “You have had your hand in some of the most significant moments of human intelligence and ingenuity. You helped create Hammurabi’s Code of Law… you helped with the printing press. You inspired countless authors…” Crowley leans forward and kisses the angel’s nose. 

“You are funny,” he continues, speaking softly, thumbs brushing over Aziraphale’s cheeks, catching the first few tears that have fallen from his eyes. “You tell terrible jokes but you’re always so blessedly  _ proud _ when you get me to laugh at one. You can insult a noble and leave them completely bewildered by how  _ nicely _ you went about it- it’s a skill I  _ envy.”  _

A kiss to one cheek. 

“You’re cultured,” Crowley says, describing all the languages Aziraphale knows, all the books he’s read, all the music he’s listened to. All the songs he’s helped inspire. The paintings. The sculptures. “Your handprint is all over history, drawing out the absolute best in people,” Crowley kisses the other cheek. 

“You don't  _ have _ to have a purpose, Aziraphale,” Crowley says soothingly, “There’s nothing wrong with  _ wanting _ one. But you shouldn’t feel that somehow you’re unworthy or something just because you don’t quite know what to do with yourself for the moment. All you need to do is be you… and the world is already better for it.” 

Aziraphale sniffles. “Darling…” 

“And we’ve got time,” Crowley reminds him, “You don’t have to figure anything out today. Or tomorrow. Or even next week. We’ve spent six thousand years on a leash, and now it’s a bit overwhelming, knowing there’s really no limit to what we can do. Take your time. You’re allowed that, if you want it. The only one insisting you keep to some kind of schedule is you.” 

Aziraphale catches one of Crowley’s hands in his. He shifts so he can press a kiss to Crowley’s palm, then looks back at his husband. “Thank you.” 

“‘Course,” Crowley says, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “I forgot to mention my favorite thing that you are.” 

“What’s that, darling?” 

Crowley leans back and looks at Aziraphale with the biggest shit-eating grin. “My  _ hubby.”  _

“Ugh,” Aziraphale groans as he playfully shoves Crowley off him. “Be gone, foul fiend.” 

Crowley lets himself fall onto his back, laughing as he settles on the blanket. After a moment he tugs on Aziraphale, who obliges the silent request to lay down beside him. Crowley tucks one hand behind his head and curls the other arm around Aziraphale, keeping him pressed tight. Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“You’re welcome,” Crowley responds, kissing the angel’s forehead again. They lay there the rest of the night, Crowley pointing out stars and telling Aziraphale what he remembers about their creation. He describes the feeling of his hands covered in stardust. It had been a pain to wash out. He recalls the satisfaction of completing a star; of bringing something to life under his touch. 

The way he coaxes (bullies) plants to flourish under his scowling gaze. The way he coaxes (teases) Aziraphale under a loving gaze. 

Aziraphale listens intently, and thinks perhaps he ought to look into making a small observatory at the cottage. Maybe they can extend the garden- they have the acreage- and build something cozy. They don’t need a telescope to see the stars, but a nice, fancy telescope might be an appropriate symbolic centerpiece. 

Eventually the sun rises. In the distance, at the farm down the road from them, one of the roosters crows. 

“Welp. It’s Christmas,” Crowley says with a sort of sigh that one might express at getting a summons for jury duty. 

“It is,” Aziraphale acknowledges. “If you want to talk-“ 

“Eh,” Crowley grunts, “Not a lot to say, really. Not a fan of the day. Never been fond of the mess they made of his birth,” Crowley stops and rolls his eyes. “‘S’not even his  _ actual  _ birthday! Not that  _ that  _ matters.”

“They do tend to muck up those sorts of things,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“Do they!” Crowley agrees with a dry laugh. “You know, if it weren’t for the fact that I came up with the concept of Santa Claus just to piss off humans who bitch and moan about the  _ commercialization of Christmas _ \- and then bloody participate in it  _ anyway!-  _ I’d probably be a lot grumpier about the subject.” 

Aziraphale says nothing to that, except, “I  _ knew _ that was you.” 

Crowley snorts. “‘Course it was. They decide to make a mockery of him, so I made a mockery of their mockery.” 

“I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but what do two mockeries make?” questions Aziraphale. 

“A satire.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Was  _ The Modest Proposal _ one of yours, then?” 

Beside him, Crowley shakes his head. “Nah. Left all the book stuff to you.” 

“Well I appreciate that,” Aziraphale says affectionately, before sitting up just enough to be able to look down at Crowley. “But I appreciate you more.” Crowley lifts his head and kisses the angel, and then kisses him again, and they don’t speak again for quite a while. 

Eventually, Aziraphale breaks the kiss and leans away, breathing heavily. He can feel a sharp twist of lust radiating off of Crowley, but Aziraphale has no desire to do  _ that  _ on a beach. Too much sand. 

So instead he sits up, motioning for Crowley to follow. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Aziraphale says as he looks at Crowley, eyes wide and mouth beautifully red and bruised. His eyes travel downward, to a less distracting place, and focuses on the strange pattern of Crowley’s sleep shirt, exposed where the robe has fallen open.  It’s a band logo, of that he’s certain, but he has no idea who they are or what they might sound like. He’s only really familiar with Queen- and that’s because every time he’s left a compact disc in the Bentley for Crowley to enjoy, its subsequently been transformed into a  _ Best of Queen  _ album, and while the angel will never admit it, he’s become quite fond of a few of those songs. “But I got you a present. For Christmas. Or the winter solstice. Or to celebrate some anniversary I’m sure we’ve forgotten. Or simply just because. However you prefer.” 

“Funny,” Crowley says, eyes sparkling, “I got you one as well.” 

“I can’t physically give it to you,” Aziraphale says, “But I do so want to tell you about it.” 

“Nothing’s stopping you. Tell me.” 

Aziraphale pauses for dramatas, then: “I arranged it so that when the Queen gives her Christmas speech later this morning, the teleprompter malfunctions and she ends up saying  _ quite _ the rude word.” 

Crowley freezes, then bursts out laughing. Aziraphale beams with pride as Crowley curls in on himself with laughter. His eyes are screwed shut. When he opens them a moment later, they’re bright with amusement and love. “Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes, sliding close once more to kiss the angel. “You spoil me.” 

“She’ll make a hefty donation to a local charity,” Aziraphale adds on, “Just to help me not feel  _ too  _ terrible about things.” 

“Of course,” Crowley says indulgently. He doesn’t mind. In fact he loves that others will be helped thanks to the queen’s blunder. “I went around London and placed sprigs of mistletoe up. Several people will meet the love of their life today thanks to that ridiculous tradition.” 

The angel  _ beams.  _ “Oh, Crowley, you didn’t!” 

With a snap, he produces another spring of mistletoe, this one dangling between his thumb and forefinger. He lifts it over their heads. “I’m a free demon, now,” he says proudly, “And I can do what I want.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “In the absence of me having no bloody idea what  _ I  _ want… what do  _ you  _ want?” 

Crowley kisses him. “I want to go back to our cottage and make a right  _ mess _ of those new flannel sheets you bought.” 

“And after that?” Aziraphale asks, though he’s certain he already knows the answer. 

“Who knows?” Crowley says as if it’s as easy as that. And maybe it is, Aziraphale realizes. Maybe they don’t have to have everything figured out just yet. Maybe they can simply take their time- of which they have an abundance- and adjust to their newfound freedom and all that that means. Maybe they can spend their days arguing about paint colors and tending to the garden and befriending the townspeople who are all jovial and kind. Or maybe they can simply  _ be _ as they let the world turn and guide them where it will. 

_ I don’t know what I’m doing,  _ Aziraphale thinks again as he and Crowley pack up the blankets and mugs and meander back toward the cottage.  _ But Crowley doesn’t either. Maybe no one knows what they’re doing. And maybe that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  _

_ What a remarkably human notion.  _

  
  
  
The End 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I spend 20 years of my life devoted to the church only to become disillusioned with their absolute hypocrisy and cruelty and finally leave in Feb of this year despite it being the only real constant in my life and then proceed to project that “relieved but totally lost” feeling onto Aziraphale being rejected by Heaven and not knowing what to do next with his life hahahahaha you bet your ass I did :-/
> 
> But my own existential dread and uncertainty aside- I really love the idea of Aziraphale struggling with being free. Once the relief wears off, there comes this sense of listlessness because, well… if being an angel of Heaven is who you are, and you walk away from that… well… what are you? 
> 
> Well. There we are. The end of Lead Balloons. I hope you enjoyed! If you did, let me know! 
> 
> Now that this is finished, I’m going to take a couple weeks off to let my hands rest and recover. But I’ll be back relatively soon with a new fic! It’s a 4 chapter piece, told from Crowley’s POV (which was strange as I tend to write from Aziraphale’s perspective) but I’m really excited about it. It’s another human AU- because I’m an absolute sucker for those. 
> 
> Until then, love you! ❤️


End file.
